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UNFINISHED PORTRAITS 



BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

KATE WETHERILL 

A PILLAR OF SALT 

THE SON OF A FIDDLER 

UNCLE WILLIAM 

SIMEON TETLOW'S SHADOW 

HAPPY ISLAND 

MR. ACHILLES 

THE TASTE OF APPLES 

THE WOMAN IN THE ALCOVE 

AUNT JANE 

THE D3SEN SECRET 

THE SYMPHONY PLAY 




The great picture gathered to itself shape, and glowed. 

[Page 253 



S O:" = s> 



UNFINISHED PORTRAITS 

STORIES OF MUSICIANS AND ARTISTS 



JENNETTE LEE **•&• 



Schubert Titian 

Chopin Giorgione 

Bach Leonardo 

Alhrecht Diirer 



NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



I916 



Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
Published September, 1916 



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©CI.A437858 

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TO 
GERALD STANLEY LEE 

AND 

"the GREAT ROAD THAT LEADS 
FROM THE SEEN TO THE UNSEEN " 



CONTENTS 




There Was in Florence a Lady 


PAGE 
I 


Thumbs and Fugues 


29 


A Window of Music 


79 


Frederic Chopin — A Record 


135 


The Man With the Glove 


iSi 


The Lost Monogram 


207 



@ > 



THERE WAS IN FLORENCE 
A LADY 



-La. 



There Was in Florence 
a Lady 

ltd ==£ 3a- 



T] 



HE soft wind of an Italian spring 
stirred among the leaves outside. The 
windows of the studio, left open to the 
morning air, were carefully shaded. The 
scent of mulberry blossoms drifted in. 
The chair on the model-stand, adjusted 
to catch the light, was screened from the 
glare; and the light falling on the rich 
drapery flung across its back brought out 
a dull carmine in the slender, bell-shaped 
flowers near by, and dark gleams of old 
oak in the carved chair. The chair was 
empty; but the two men in the studio were 
facing it, as if a presence were still there. 
The painter, sketching idly on the 

m 



Unfinished Portraits 



edge of his drawing-board, leaned back 
to survey the child's head that developed 
under his pencil. " She will not come this 
morning, then?" he asked almost in- 
differently. 

The older man shook his head. "She 
said not. She may change her mind." 

The painter glanced up quickly. He 
could see nothing in the face of the other, 
and he devoted himself anew to the 
child's head. "It does not matter," he 
said. "I can work on the background — 
if I feel like working at all," he added, 
after a moment's pause. 

The older man stared moodily at the 
floor. He flicked a pair of long riding- 
gloves lightly through his fingers. He 
glanced toward the easel standing in front 
of the painter, a little to the left. "It is 
barbarous that you have had to waste so 
much time!" he broke out. "How long 

[4] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

is it ? Two — no, three years last Christ- 
mas time since you began. And there it 
stands." The figure on the easel, erect, 
tranquil, in the old chair, seemed to half 
shrug its shapely shoulders in defense of 
the unfinished face. He looked at it 
severely. The severity changed to some- 
thing else. "And it is so perfect — dam- 
nably perfect," he said irritably. 

The artist raised his eyebrows the 
least trifle. A movement so slight might 
have indicated scrutiny of his own work. 
"You are off for the day?" he asked, 
glancing at the riding-whip and hat on a 
table by the door. 

"Yes; I shall run up, perhaps, as far 
as Pistoia. Going to see the new altar- 
piece." He took up the hat and whip. 
He waited, fingering them indecisively. 
"She seems to me more fickle than ever, 
this last month or two." 

m 



Unfinished Portraits 



" I see that she is restless." The painter 
spoke in a low tone, half hesitating. "I 
have wondered whether — I had hoped 
that the Bambino" — he touched the fig- 
ure lightly with his foot — "might not be 
needed." 

The other started. He stared at him a 
full minute. His eyes fell. "No, no such 
good luck," he said brusquely. "It is only 
caprice." 

The draperies near him parted. A 
boyish figure appeared in the opening. 
"Castino wishes me to say that the mu- 
sicians wait," said the youth. 

The painter rose and came toward him, 
a smile of pleasure on his face. "Tell them 
that there will be no sitting to-day, Salai," 
he said, laying his hand, half in greeting, 
half in caress, on the youth's shoulder. 

"Yes, Signor." Salai saluted and with- 
drew. 

[6] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

The painter turned again to the older 
man. " It was a happy thought of yours, 
Zano — the music. She delights in it. I 
almost caught, one day last week, while 
they were playing, that curve about the 
lips/' 

They stood for a moment in silence, 
looking toward the portrait. The mem- 
ory of a haunting smile seemed to flicker 
across the shaded light. 

"Well, I am off." The man held out 
his hand. 

The artist hesitated a second. Then 
he raised the hand in his supple fingers 
and placed it to his lips. "A safe jour- 
ney to you, Signor," he said, in playful 
formality. 

"And a safe return, to find our Lady 
Lisa in better temper," laughed the 
other. The laugh passed behind the 
draperies. 

[7] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The artist remained standing, his eyes 
resting absently on the rich colors of 
the Venetian tapestry through which his 
friend had disappeared. His face was 
clouded with thought. He had the look 
of a man absorbed in a problem, who has 
come upon an unexpected complication. 

When the chess-board is a Florentine 
palace, and the pieces are fifteenth-cen- 
tury human beings, such complications 
are likely to occur. The Lady Lisa had 
more than once given evidence that she 
was not carved of wood or ivory. But for 
three years the situation had remained 
the same — the husband unobservant, the 
lady capricious and wilful. She had shown 
the artist more kindness than he cared 
to recall. That was months ago. Of late 
he had found scant favor in her sight. . . . 
It was better so. 

He crossed to the easel, and stood 
[8] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

looking down at it. The quiet figure on 
the canvas sent back a thrill of pride 
and dissatisfaction. He gazed at it bitter- 
ly. Three years — but an eternal woman. 
Some day he should catch the secret of 
her smile and fix it there. The world 
would not forget her — or him. He should 
not go down to posterity as the builder 
of a canal ! The great picture at the 
Dominicans already showed signs of fad- 
ing. The equestrian statue of the Duke 
was crumbling in its clay — no one to pay 

for the casting. But this picture For 

months — with its rippling light of under 
sea, its soft dreamy background, and in 
the foreground the mysterious figure. . . . 
All was finished but the Child upon her 
arm, the smile of light in her eyes. 

The lady had flouted the idea. It was 
a fancy of her husband's, to paint her 
as Madonna. She had refused to touch 

[9] 



Unfinished Portraits 



the Bambino — sometimes petulantly, 
sometimes in silent scorn. The tiny fig- 
ure lay always on the studio floor, dusty 
and disarranged. The artist picked it up. 
It was an absurd little wooden face in 
the lace cap. He straightened the velvet 
mantle and smoothed the crumpled dress. 
He stepped to the model-stand and 
placed the tiny figure in the draped 
chair. It rested stiffly against the arm. 

A light laugh caused him to turn his 
head. He was kneeling in front of the 
Bambino. 

"I see that you have supplied my 
place, Sir Painter," said a mocking voice. 

He turned quickly and faced the little 
doorway. She stood there, smiling, scorn- 
ful, her hands full of some delicate flimsy 
stuff, a gold thimble-cap on her finger. 
"It would not make a bad picture," she 
said tranquilly, "you and the Bambino." 

[IO] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

His face lighted up. "You have come !" 
He hastened toward her with outstretched 
hand. 

With a pretty gesture of the fragile 
sewing she ignored the hand. "Yes, I 
dared not trust you. You might paint 
in the Bambino face instead of mine, by 
mistake." 

She approached the chair and seated 
herself carelessly. The Bambino slipped 
meekly through the arm to the floor. 

"Zano told me" — he began. 

"Yes, I know. He was very tiresome. 
I thought he would never go. I really 
feared that we might quarrel. It is too 
warm." She glanced about the shaded 
room. "You manage it well," she said 
approvingly. "It is by far the coolest 
place in the palace." 

"You will be going to the mountains 
soon?" He saw that she was talking 

[»] 



Unfinished Portraits 



lightly to cover herself, and fell in with 
her mood. He watched her as he ar- 
ranged the easel and prepared his colors. 
Once he stopped and sketched rapidly 
for a minute on the small drawing-board. 

She looked inquiry. 

"Only an eyebrow," he explained. 

She smiled serenely. "You should make 
a collection of those eyebrows. They 
must mount into the hundreds by this 
time. You could label them 'Characters 
of the Lady Lisa/" 

"The Souls of Lady Lisa." 

The lady turned her head aside. "Your 
distinctions are too subtle," she said. 
Her eye fell on the Bambino, resting dis- 
gracefully on its wooden head. "Poor 
little figurine," she murmured, reaching a 
slender hand to draw it up. She straight- 
ened the tumbled finery absently. It 
slipped to her lap, and lay there. Her 

[ » ] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

hands were idle, her eyes looking far into 
space. 

The painter worked rapidly. She stirred 
slightly. "Sit still," he said, almost 
harshly. 

She gave a quick, startled look. She 
glanced at the rigid little figure. She 
raised it for a minute. Her face grew in- 
scrutable. Would she laugh or cry ? He 
worked with hasty, snatched glances. 
Such a moment would not come again. 
A flitting crash startled him from the 
canvas. He looked up. The Bambino lay 
in a pathetic heap on the floor, scattered 
with fragments of a rare Venetian glass. 
She sat erect and imperious, looking 
with scorn at the wreck. Two great tears 
welled. They overflowed. The floods 
pressed behind them. She dropped her 
face in her hands. Before he could reach 
her she had darted from the chair. The 

[13] 



Unfinished Portraits 



mask of scorn was gone. She fled from 
him, from herself, blindly, stopping only 
when the wall of the studio intervened. 
She stood with her face buried in the dra- 
pery, her shoulders wrenched with sobs. 

He approached her. He waited. The 
Bambino lay with its wooden face star- 
ing at the ceiling. It was a crisis for 
them all. The next move would deter- 
mine everything. He must not risk too 
much, again. The picture — art — hung 
on her sobs. Lover — artist ? He paused 
a second too long. 

She turned toward him slowly, serene- 
ly. Her glance fell across him, level and 
tranquil. The traces of ignored tears lay 
in smiling drops on her face. The soft- 
ened scorn played across it. "Shall we 
finish the sitting?" she asked, in a con- 
ventional voice. 

He took up his brush uncertainly. She 

t H ] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

seated herself, gathering up the scattered 
work. For a few moments she sewed 
rapidly. Then the soft fabric fell to her 
lap. She sat looking before her, uncon- 
scious, except that her glance seemed to 
rest now and then on the fallen figure in 
its fragments of glass. 

For two hours he worked feverishly, 
painting with swiftest skill and power. 
At times he caught his breath at the 
revelation in the face. He was too alert 
to be human. The artist forgot the 
woman. Faithfully, line by line, he laid 
bare her heart. She sat unmoved. When 
at last, from sheer weariness, the brush 
dropped from his hand, she stepped from 
the model-stand, and stood at his side. 
She looked at the canvas attentively. 
The inscrutable look of the painted face 
seemed but a faint reflex of the living 
one. 

[IS] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"You have succeeded well," she said 
at last. "We will omit the Bambino." 

She moved slowly, graciously, toward 
the door, gathering the fragile sewing as 
she went. He started toward her — sud- 
denly conscious of her power — a man 
again. A parting of the draperies arrested 
them. It was Salai, his face agitated, look- 
ing from the lady to the painter, inartic- 
ulate. 

"The Signor" — he gasped — "his horse 
— they bring him — dead." 

She stirred slightly where she stood. 
Her eyelids fell. "Go, Salai. Await your 
master's commands in the hall below." 

She turned to the painter as the drap- 
eries closed. "I trust that you will make 
all use of our service, Signor Leonardo, 
in removing from the palace. The apart- 
ments will, I fear, be needed for relatives. 
They will come to honor the dead." 
[16] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

He stood for a moment stupefied, 
aghast at her control of practical, fem- 
inine detail; then moved toward her. 
"Lisa " 

She motioned toward the easel. "Pay- 
ment for the picture will be sent you 
soon." 

"The picture goes with me. It is not 
finished." 

"It is well." She bowed mockingly. 
The little door swung noiselessly behind 
her. He was left alone with the portrait. 
It was looking sideways at the fallen 
Bambino amid the shattered fragments 
on the floor. 



[17] 



II 

IT was the French monarch. He flut- 
tered restlessly about the studio, urbane, 
enthusiastic. He paused to finger some 
ingenious toy, to praise some drawing or 
bit of sunlit color that caught his fancy. 
The painter, smiling at the frank enthu- 
siasm, followed leisurely from room to 
room. The wandering Milanese villa was a 
treasure house. Bits of marble and clay, 
curious mechanical contrivances, winged 
creatures, bats and creeping things min- 
gled with the canvases. Color and line ran 
riot on the walls. A few finished pieces 
had been placed on easels, in convenient 
light, for the royal inspection. Each of 
these, in turn, the volatile monarch had 
exalted. He had declared that everything 
in the villa, including the gifted owner, 
must return with him to France. 

[18] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

"That is the place for men like you !" 
he exclaimed, standing before a small, 
exquisitely finished Madonna. "What 
do these Milanese know of art ? Or the 
Florentines, for that matter ? Your 'Last 
Supper* — I saw it last week. It is a blur. 
Would that the sainted Louis might 
have taken it bodily, stone by stone, to 
our France, as he longed to do. You will 
see; the mere copy has more honor with 
us than the original here. Come with 
us," he added persuasively, laying his 
hand on the painter's shabby sleeve. 

The painter looked down from his 
height on the royal suitor. "You do me 
too much honor, sire. I am an old man." 

"You are Leonardo da Vinci," said 
the other stoutly, "the painter of these 
pictures. I shall carry them all away, 
and you will have to follow," laughed 
the monarch. "I will not leave one." 

[19] 



Unfinished Portraits 



He rummaged gayly in the unfinished 
debris, bringing out with each turn some 
new theme of delight. 

The painter stood by, waiting, alert, 
a trifle uneasy, it might seem. "And 
now, sire, shall we see the view from the 
little western turret ?" 

"One moment. Ah, what have we 
here ? " He turned the canvas to the 
light. The figure against the quaint land- 
scape looked out with level, smiling 
glance. He fell upon his knees before it. 
"Ah, marvellous, marvellous!" he mur- 
mured in naive delight. He remained long 
before it, absorbed, forgetful. At last he 
rose. He lifted the picture and placed it 
on an easel. "Is she yet alive?" he de- 
manded, turning to the painter. 

"She lives in Florence, sire." 

"And her name ?" 

"Signora Lisa della Gioconda." 

[20] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

"Her husband? It matters not." 

"Dead these ten years." 

"And children?" 

"A boy. Born shortly after the hus- 
band's death," he added, after a slight 
pause. " Shall we proceed to the turret ? 
The light changes fast at sunset." 

"Presently, presently. The portrait 
must be mine. The original — We shall 
see — we shall see." 

"Nay, your Majesty, the portrait is 
unfinished." 

"Unfinished ?" He stared at it anew. 
"Impossible. It is perfect." 

"There was to be a child." 

"Ah!" The monarch gazed at it in- 
tently for many minutes. The portrait 
returned the royal look in kind. He 
broke into a light laugh. "You did well 
to omit the child," he said. "Come, we 
will see the famous sunset now." He 

[21] 



Unfinished Portraits 



turned to the regal figure on the easel. 
"Adieu, Mona Lisa. I come for you 
again." He kissed his fingers with airy- 
grace. He fluttered out. The mocking, 
sidelong glance followed him. 



[22] 



Ill 



Ti 



HE western sun filled the room. On 
a couch drawn near the low French win- 
dow lay the painter. His eyes looked 
across the valley to a long line of pop- 
lars, silver in the wind. Like a strange 
processional, up the hill, they held him. 
They came from Lombardy. In the 
brasier, across the room, burned a flick- 
ering fire. Even on the warmest days he 
shivered for sunnier skies. Above the fire 
hung a picture — a woman seated in a 
rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out 
upon the world of life. 

The painter touched a silver bell that 
stood on a table at hand. A figure en- 
tered. It crossed to the window. The face 
was turned in shadow. It waited. 

"Has our good physician gone, Fran- 
cesco ?" asked the painter. 

[23] 



Unfinished Portraits 



Francesco bowed. There was silence in 
the room except for the fire. 

"What does he say of us to-day ?" 

The youth brushed his hand across his 
eyes impatiently. "He always croaks. 
He is never hopeful." He approached the 
couch and knelt by it, his face in the 
shadow still. 

The painter lay tranquil, watching the 
poplars. "Why grieve ? An exile has not 
so many joys that he need fear to lose 
them, Francesco." 

The younger man made no reply. He 
was adjusting the pillows. He slipped a 
fresh one beneath the long white hair. 
The locks strayed in a dull silvery glim- 
mer over it. 

"Ah, that is good," murmured the old 
man. "Your hand is like a woman's. I 
have not known many women," he said, 
after a pause. ..." But I have not been 

[Hi 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

lonely. Friends are faithful" — he pressed 
the youth's warm hand. "His Majesty ?" 
-—the voice ended with a question. 

"No, master. But there is yet time. 
He often comes at sunset. See how bright 
it grows." 

The painter turned his head. He looked 
long. "Tell us what the wise physician 
said, Francesco. Will it be soon?" 

"Nay, master, I know not. He said if 
you have any wishes " 

"Ah, yes." He lay musing, his eyes 
looking across the room. "There will be 
few bequests. My pictures — they are 
mine no longer. Should a painter barter 
the sons and daughters of his soul ? . * . 
Gold cannot buy. . . . They are mine. 
. . . Four thousand shining gold pieces 
Francis put into my hand. He took away 
the Lisa. He would not be refused. But 
I followed. I could not live without her. 

[25] 



Unfinished Portraits 



When a man is old, Francesco, his hand 
trembles. He must see something he has 
done, something perfect. ..." He lay 
looking long at the portrait. "And yet 
it is not finished. . . . There was to be 
the child." He smiled dreamily. "Poor 
Bambino." His eyes rested again on the 
portrait. ... He smiled back upon it. 
"Yes, you will live," he said softly. 
"Francis will have you. You scorned him. 
But he was generous. He gave you back 
to me. You will be his — his and his chil- 
dren's. I have no child At least . . . 

Ah, well — Francis will have you. Leda and 
Pomona will pass. The Dominican pic- 
ture ... all but gone. The hand of time 
has rested on my work. Crumbling — fad- 
ing — nothing finished. I planned so much. 
Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and 
thinks. Nothing finished. My manuscripts 
— do with them what you will. I could 

[26] 



There Was in Florence a Lady 

not even write like other men — this 
poor left hand." He lifted the filmy lace 
ruffle falling across his hand. He smiled 
ironically at the costly folds, as they 
fluttered from his fingers. "A man is 
poor who has few wants. Then I have 
not been poor. But there is nothing 
left. It will be an empty name." 

Silence fell between them. 

"There is in Florence a lady. You 
must seek for her, Francesco. She is rich 
and beautiful. She did me once a kind- 
ness. I should like her — this ring — " He 
slipped it from his finger — a heavy stone, 
deep green, with translucent lights. "It 
was my father's crest. He gave it to my 
mother — not his wife — a woman — faith- 
ful. She put it on my finger when she 
died — a peasant woman. Tell the lady 
when you give it her . . . she has a son. 
. . . Tell her ..." The voice fell hushed. 

[27] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The young man waited, with bowed 
head. He looked up. He started quickly, 
and leaned his ear to listen. Then he 
folded the hands across the quiet breast. 
He passed swiftly from the silent cham- 
ber, down to the courtyard, out on the 
King's highway, mounted and fleet. 

The French King was riding merrily. 
He carolled a gay chanson. His retinue 
followed at a distance. Francesco Melzi 
saluted and drew rein. He spoke a word 
in the monarch's ear. The two men stood . 
with uncovered heads. They looked to- 
ward the western windows. The gay cav- 
alcade halted in the glow of light. A hush 
fell on their chatter. The windows flamed 
in the crimson flood. Within the room, 
above the gleaming coals, a woman of 
eternal youth looked down with tranquil 
gaze upon an old man's face. 



[28] 



< * . - ^ 



THUMBS AND FUGUES 

4S E $«■ 



in nr^s c* 



Thumbs and Fugues 



READY, father— ready!" shouted 
the small boy. He was standing on the 
top step of a flight of stairs leading to 
the organ-loft of the Hofchapel, peering 
in. His round, stolid face and short, 
square legs gave no hint of the excite- 
ment that piped in his shrill voice. 

The man at the organ looked leisurely 
around, nodding his big head and smil- 
ing. "Ja, ja, S'bastian — ja," he said 
placidly. His fingers played slowly on. 

The boy mounted the steps to the 
organ and rubbed his cheek softly against 
the coat sleeve that reached out to the 
keys. The man smiled again a big, float- 
ing smile, and his hands came to rest. 

[ 31 1 



Unfinished Portraits 



The boy looked up wistfully. "They'll 
all get there before we do," he said quickly. 
"Come!" 

The man looked down absently and 
kindly. "Nein, S'bastian." He patted 
the round head beside him. "There is no 
need that we should hurry." 

They passed out of the chapel, across 
the courtyard and into the open road. 
For half an hour, they trudged on in 
silence, their broad backs swinging from 
side to side in the morning light. Across 
the man's back was slung a large violin, 
in its bag; and across the back of the 
boy hung a violin like that of the father, 
only shorter and fatter and squarer, and 
on his head was a huge woollen cap. He 
took it off and wiped the perspiration 
from his white forehead. 

The man looked down at him once 
more and halted. "Now, but we will rest 

[32] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



here," he said gently. He removed the 
violin-bag carefully from his back and 
threw himself on the ground and took 
from his pocket a great pipe. 

With a little sigh the boy sat down 
beside him. 

The man nodded good-naturedly. 
"Ja, that is right." He blew a puff of 
smoke toward the morning clouds; "the 
Bachs do not hurry, my child — no more 
does the sun." 

The boy smiled proudly. He looked up 
toward the ball of fire sailing above them 
and a change came over his face. "We 
might miss the choral," he said wist- 
fully. "They won't wait, will they ?" 

The big man shook his head. "We shall 
not be late. There is my clock." He 
nodded toward the golden sun. "And I 
have yet another here," he added, placing 
a comfortable hand on his big stomach. 

[33] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The boy laughed softly and lay quiet. 

The man opened his lips and blew a 
wreath of smoke. 

"There will be more than a hun- 
dred Bachs," he said slowly, "and you 
must play what I have taught you — 
not too slow and not too fast." He 
looked down at the boy's fat fingers. 
"Play like a true Bach and no other," 
he added. 

The boy nodded. "Will Uncle Chris- 
toph be there ?" he asked after a pause. 

"Ja." 

"And Uncle Heinrich?" 

"Ja, ja!" 

The boy gave a quick sigh of con- 
tentment. 

His father was looking at him shrewdly. 
"But it is not Uncle Heinrich that will 
be making a player of you, and it is 
not Uncle Christoph. It is only Johann 

[34l 



Thumbs and Fugues 



Sebastian Bach that can make himself 
a player," he said sternly. 

"Yes, father," replied the boy ab- 
sently. His eyes were following the 
clouds. 

The man blew great puffs of smoke 
toward them. "It is more than a hun- 
dred and twenty years ago that we came 
from Hungary," he said proudly. 

The boy nestled toward him. "Tell 
me about it." He had heard the story 
many times. 

"Ja, ja," said the man musingly. . . . 
"He was my great-grandfather, that 
man — Veit Bach — and your great-great- 
grandfather." 

The boy nodded. 

"And he was a miller " 



He dropped into silence, and a little 
brook that ran over the stones near by 
babbled as it went. 

[35] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The boy raised his eyes. "And he had 
a lute," he prompted softly. 

"Ja, he had a lute — and while the 
mill-wheel turned, he played the lute — 
sweet, true notes and tunes he played — 
in that old mill." 

The boy smiled contentedly. 

"And now we be a hundred Bachs. 
We make music for all Germany. Come !" 
He sprang to his feet. "We will go to 
the festival, the great Bach festival. 
You, my little son, shall play like a true 
Bach." 

As they walked along the road he 
hummed contentedly to himself, speak- 
ing now and then a word to the boy. 
"What makes one Bach great, makes 
all. Remember, my child, Reinken is 
great — but he is only one; and Bohm 
and Buxtehude, Pachelbel. But we are 
many — all Bachs — all great." He hummed 
[36 ] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



gayly a few bars of the choral and 
stopped, listening. 

The boy turned his face back over the 
road. "They are coming,' , he said softly. 

"Ja, they are coming." 

The next moment a heavy cart came 
in sight. It was laden to the brim with 
Bachs and music; some laughing and some 
singing and some playing — on fiddles or 
flutes or horns — beaming with broad 
faces. 

The man caught up Sebastian by the 
arm and jumped on to the tail-board of 
the cart. And thus — enveloped in a cloud 
of dust, surrounded by the laughter of 
fun-loving men and youths — the boy came 
into Erfurt, to the great festival of all 
the Bachs. 



[37] 



II 

uH-H ! It is Heinrich ! Listen to him 
— to Heinrich !" There were nods and 
smiles and soft thudding of mugs, and 
turning of broad faces toward the other 
end of the enclosure, as a small figure 
mounted the platform. 

He was a tiny man, unlike the others; 
but he carried himself with a gentle 
pomposity, and he faced the gathering 
with a proud gesture, holding up his hand 
to enjoin silence. After a few muttering 
rumbles they subsided. 

Sebastian, sitting between his father 
and a fat Bach, gulped with joy. It was 
the great Heinrich — who composed cho- 
rals and fugues and gavottes and — hush ! 
Could it be that he was rebuking the 
Bachs — the great Bachs ! . . . Sebastian's 
ears cracked with the strain. He looked 

[38] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



helplessly at his father, who sat smiling 
into his empty beer-mug, and at the fat 
Bach on the other side, who was gaping 
with open mouth at the great Heinrich. 

Sebastian looked back to the platform. 

Heinrich's finger was uplifted at them 
sternly. ... "It was Reinken who said 
it. He of the Katherinenkirche has said 
it, in open festival, that there is not a 
Bach in Germany that can play as he 
can play. Do you hear that!" The little 
man stamped impatiently with his foot 
on the platform. "He has called us flut- 
ists and lutists and 'cellists — " He 
stopped and held up a small instrument 
that he carried in his hand — "Do you 
know what this is ?" 

A response of grunts and cheers came 
from the crowd. 

Sebastian stretched his neck to see. It 
was a kind of viol, small and battered 

[39] 



Unfinished Portraits 



and torn. Worn ribbons fluttered from 
the handle. 

The small man on the platform lifted 
it reverently to his chin. He ran his 
fingers lightly along the broken strings. 
"You know the man who played it," he 
said significantly, "old Veit Bach — " 
Cheers broke from the crowd. He stopped 
them sternly. " Do you think if he were 
alive — if Veit Bach were alive, would 
Reinken, of Hamburg, dare challenge him 
in open festival ?" 

Cries of "Nein, nein!" and "Ja, ja!" 
came back from the benches. 

"Ja, ja! Nein, nein!" snarled back 
the little man. "You know that he would 
not. He had only this — " He held up 
the lute again. "Only this and his mill. 
But he made the greatest music of his 
time. While you — thirty of you this day 
at the best organs in Germany. . . . And 

[401 



Thumbs and Fugues 



Reinken defies you. . . . Reinken!" His 
lighted eye ran along the crowd. "Be- 
fore the next festival, shall there be one 
who will meet him?" There was no 
response. The Bachs looked into their 
beer-mugs. The great Heinrich swept 
them with his eagle glance. "Is there 
not one," he went on slowly, "who dares 
promise, in the presence of the Bachs 
that before Reinken dies he will meet 
him and outplay him ?" 

The Bachs were silent. They knew 
Reinken. 

Sebastian, wedged between his father 
and the fat Bach, gulped mightily. He 
struggled to get to his feet. But a hand 
at his coat-tails held him fast. He looked 
up imploringly into his father's face — but 
the hand at his coat-tails restrained him. 
"I will promise," he whispered, "I want 
to promise." 

ui] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Ja, ja, little son," whispered the fa- 
ther; and he and the fat Bach exchanged 
smiles across the round head. 

Heinrich's glance swept the crowd 
once more. . . . "You will not promise? 
Then let me tell you — " He raised his 
small hand impressively. 

"There shall come of the Bachs one so 
great that all others shall fade. He only 
shall be known as Bach — he and his sons; 
and before him the name of Reinken 
shall be as dust!" With a hiss upon the 
last word, he threw open his arms. 
"Come!" he said, "take your instrument 
and play." 

Then fell upon the assembly a series 
of squeaks and gruntings and tunings 
and twinges and groans and wails such 
as was never heard outside a Bach fes- 
tival. And little Sebastian, tugging at 
his violin, tuned and squeaked and 



Thumbs and Fugues 



grunted with the rest, oblivious to the 
taps that fell on his small head from 
surrounding bows. And when at last the 
tuning was done and there burst forth 
the wonderful new melody of the choral, 
Sebastian's heart went dizzy with the 
joy of it. And Uncle Heinrich on the 
platform, strutting proudly back and 
forth, conducting the choral — his own 
choral — forgot his anger and forgot 
Reinken, and forgot everything except 
the Bachs playing there before him — 
playing as only the Bachs, the united 
Bachs, could play — in all Germany or in 
all the world. 



[43] 



•w * ===== « » 

III 



Ti 



HE two boys had come to a turn in 
the road, and stood looking back over 
the way they had come. The younger 
of the two looked up wistfully to the 
cherry-blossomed trees overhead. "It 
is hot, Sebastian! — Let us rest." 

With a smile the other boy threw him- 
self on the grass. The large, flat book that 
he carried under his arm fell to the 
ground beside him, and his hand stole 
out and touched it. He had a wide, 
quiet face, with blue eyes and a short 
nose, and lips that smiled dreamily to 
themselves. As he lay looking up into 
the white blossoms that swayed and 
waited against the clear blue of the sky, 
the lips curved in gentle content. 

His companion, who had thrown him- 
self on the cool grass beside him, watched 

[44] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



him admiringly. His glance shifted and 
rested on the book that lay on the grass. 
"What is it ? — What is it, Sebastian ?" he 
asked timidly. He put out an inquisi- 
tive finger toward the book. 

Sebastian turned it quietly aside. "Let 
be," he said. 

The boy flushed. "I was not going to 
touch it." 

The other smiled, with his slow, gener- 
ous eyes fixed on the boy's face. "Thou 
art a good boy, Erdman!" . . . "It 
is only thy fingers that itch to know 
things." He patted them gently, where 
they lay on the grass beside him. 

Erdman was still looking at the book. 
"Was it your brother's?" he asked in a 
half whisper. 

"Christoph's?" Sebastian shook his 
head. "No, it is mine — my own." 

The soft wind was among the blossoms 

Us] 



Unfinished Portraits 



overhead — they fell in petals, one by one, 
upon the quiet figures. 

"Want to know 'bout it?" asked Se- 
bastian, half turning to meet his com- 
panion's eye. 

The boy nodded. 

"It's mine. I copied it, every note — 
six months it took me — from Christoph's 
book." 

"Did he let you?" 

Sebastian shook his head, a grim, sweet 
smile curving the big mouth. "Let me ? — 
Christoph!" 

The boy crept nearer to him. "How 
did you do it ?" 

"I stole it — carried it up to my room 
while the others were asleep — and did it 
by the moon." 

"The moon?" 

The boy nodded, laughing. "Didst 
never hear of the moon, brave boy!" 

[46] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



Erdman smiled pettishly. "There isn't 
a moon — always," he said, after a mo- 
ment. 

"And that also is true," quoth the 
boy gravely. "But some time, late or 
early, one gets a glimpse of her — if one 
lies awake to see," he added softly. 

The other glanced again at the book. 
"Let me look at it," he pleaded. 

Sebastian smiled and reached over a 
hand to the book. "Don't touch. I'll 
show it thee." He untied the strings and 
spread it on the ground, throwing him- 
self in front of it and resting his chin in 
his hands. "Come," he said, "I'll show 
it thee." 

Erdman threw off his heavy cap and 
bent toward the book, with a little ges- 
ture of wonder. "I heard about Chris- 
toph's book — a good many times," he said 
softly. ... "I didn't ever think I'd see 

[47] 



Unfinished Portraits 



it." He reached out his hand and touched 
the open page. 

"Nobody ever saw it," said Sebastian 
absently. He was humming to himself. 
"Listen to this!" he said eagerly. He 
hummed a few bars. "That's Buxte- 
hude's — isn't it great!" His face went 
tumpty-tumpty with the notes, and the 
blue eyes shone. "But this is the one I 
like best — listen !" He turned over the 
pages rapidly. "Here it is. This is Rein- 
ken's. 'By the waters of Babylon, by the 
waters, by the waters of Babylon.'" He 
hummed the tune below his breath — and 
then louder and fuller. . . . The clear, 
sweet soprano of the notes died away 
softly. "Some day I shall play it," said 
Sebastian lingeringly. "Some day. See — 
here is the place for the harps ! And here 
are the great horns. Listen!" His voice 
droned away at the bass and ran into 

[48] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



the swift high notes of the treble. " Some 
day I shall play it," he repeated wistfully. 

Erdman's slow gaze was following the 
page. "I can't read so fast," he said en- 
viously. 

Sebastian smiled back. "I know it by 
heart — almost. When the moon was be- 
hind the clouds I waited. I sang them 
over and over." 

"Very softly," said Erdman, as if see- 
ing the picture of the boy and the dark- 
ened room. 

"Very softly," assented Sebastian, "so 
that no one should hear. And now I have 
them all!" He spoke exult ingly. "And 
next month I shall see Reinken. ... I 
shall hear him play!" 

The other stared at him. "But Rein- 
ken is at Hamburg," he said at last. 

"And that, too, is so," said Sebastian 
smiling. 

[49] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"And we go to Luneburg " 

"And we go to Luneburg!" repeated 
the boy, with a mocking lilt in his voice. 
"And Luneburg is twenty miles from 
Hamburg. Hadst thought of that ! " He 
laughed exultingly. 

The other shook his head. "I don't 
know what you mean," he said. 

Sebastian was fastening the big violin 
in place on his back. He looked up under 
smiling brows, as he bent to draw the 
last strap. Then he touched his sturdy 
legs with his hand and laughed. "I mean 
that these are the horses to carry me to 
Hamburg and back many times. I shall 
hear the great Reinken play ! — And I, too, 
shall play!" he added proudly. 

"Do you never doubt, Sebastian?" 
asked the other thoughtfully, as they 
moved on. 

"Doubt?" 

[SO] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



"Whether you will be a great musi- 
cian ? . . . Sometimes I see myself going 
back — " He paused as if ashamed to 
have said so much. 

Sebastian shook his head. His blue 
eyes were following the clouds in the 
spring day. " Sometimes I doubt whether 
I am among the elect," he said slowly. 
"But never that I am to be a musician." 
His full lips puckered dreamily, and his 
golden head nodded, keeping slow time. 
"By the waters — " he broke out into 
singing. "Is it not wunderschon ! " The 
blue eyes turned with a smile. "It is 
wunderschon ! Ach — wunderschon ! Is it 
not, Erdman?" He seemed to awake 
and laid his hand affectionately on the 
boy's shoulder. 

The other nodded. "Yes, it is schon," 
he said wistfully. 

"Come, I will teach it to thee!" 

[Si] 



Unfinished Portraits 



And the notes of Reinken's choral, 
"An den Wasserfliissen Babylon," floated 
with a clear, fresh sound on the spring 
morning air, two hundred years ago, and 
more, as two charity pupils walked along 
the road to Luneburg. 



[S»] 



IT T ' TT1 

IV 



A 



TALL man with keen eyes and a 
round stomach stood in the shadow of 
the Johanneskirche, lost in thought and 
humming to himself. Now and then he 
took off his glasses and rubbed them 
vigorously, and put them on again to 
peer absently down the street. 

A heavy figure, clad in the faded blue 
uniform of the Michaelsschule, rounded 
the corner, puffing heavily. 

"Ach, Kerlman !" The tall man started 
forward with a stride. "You are late." 

The other nodded imperturbably. 

"Ja, I am late. Those boys — I can- 
not make to hurry." He spoke as if as- 
signing sufficient reason and wiped his 
brow. 

A twinkle came into the keen eyes. 
"And one of them you have lost to-day," 
[S3] 



Unfinished Portraits 



he said dryly. He cocked his eye a trifle 
toward the heavy church that rose be- 
hind them. 

The other looked quickly around. 

"That S'bastian — was he here ?" he 
demanded. 

"In there," replied the tall man, smil- 
ing. "No, no!" he laid his hand on his 
companion's arm as he started forward. 
" Let be — let be ! . . . We must help him 
— that boy. You have not heard him play 
my organ. Wait!" He held up his 
hand. . . . Music was stealing from the 
gloomy shadows of the church. 

"Come in," said the master. He pushed 
open a low door and they entered the 
great church. Far up in the loft, struck 
by a shaft of light from a gable in the 
roof, the boy was sitting, absorbed in 
sound. His face was bent to the keys as 
his hands hovered and paused over them 

[54] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



and drew forth the strangely sweet sounds 
that filled the great building. 

The two musicians below stood looking 
up^ their big heads nodding time. . . . 
Suddenly they paused and looked at each 
other with questioning glance. The music 
was quickening and broadening with a 
clear, glad reach of sound, and under- 
neath it ran a swiftly echoing touch that 
bound the notes together and vibrated 
through them. 

"How was he doing that ?" whispered 
the small man excitedly. "You have 
taught him that?" 

The other shook his head. 

"Come, we will see." 

Together they tiptoed through the 
dark church, softly — up to the organ-loft 
and peered in. The boy, oblivious to 
sight and sound, played on. 

Kerlman leaned far forward, craning 

Iss] 



Unfinished Portraits 



his neck. He drew back, a look of stupe- 
faction in his face. He held up his large 
thumb and looked at it soberly. 

"What is it ?" whispered the other. 

"You see, Johannes Bohm ?" He shook 
the fat thumb in his companion's face. 
"He does it with that !" 

The master peered forward, incred- 
ulous. Slowly he crept up behind the boy, 
his eyes fastened on the moving hands. 
His shadow fell on the keys and the boy 
looked up. His face lighted with a smile. 

"Go on," said the master sternly. His 
eyes still watched the hands. Slowly his 
big fingers reached over and grasped the 
thumb as it pressed lightly on a key. 
"Who told you that?" he demanded. 

The boy looked down at it, puzzled. 
Then his face grew a little ashamed and 
doubtful. "It is wrong, I know," he ad- 
mitted. "Yes, it is wrong." 

[56] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



"Who taught you?" 

"Nay, no one would teach it. I just 
happened — one day. It makes it so easy." 

"Yes, I see." The master's voice was 
curt. 

"I will never do it again," said the 
boy humbly. 

"No — you might play it for me once — 
just once, for me," said the master. 

The boy's hands ran lovingly to the 
keys. They crept along the maze of sound 
and rose and fell in the changing rhythm. 
Shyly the small thumb darted out and 
found its key, and filled the great church 
with the tremulous, haunting call of note 
answering note. 

The master bending over the keys 
wiped his brow and looked at the boy 
proudly, with a little wonder in his face. 
"Good. . . . Ach — but good, good !" he 
murmured softly/ 

tS7] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The boy looked up quickly. His clear 
skin flushed. "May I use it — some- 
times?" he asked, doubting. 

Bohm gave a sharp, generous laugh. 
"You may use it." He laughed again. 
"All the world will use it!" he said, pat- 
ting him on the back. "It is a great dis- 
covery. Play more." 

The boy turned obediently to the 
keys, and while he played, the master 
slipped away. "Come down," he whis- 
pered to Kerlman, whose fat bulk filled 
the doorway. "Let us come down and 
get some beer. I am very dry this 
day." 

Over their mugs, in the garden across 
the way, they looked at each other sol- 
emnly. Then they threw back their big 
heads and laughed till their sides shook 
and their wigs stood askew. Kerlman laid 
his fat thumb on the table and regarded 
[58] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



it respectfully. "Gott im Himmel!" he 
said. 

Bohm nodded, his eyes twinkling. 

The fat man raised his thumb from 
the table and twiddled it in the air. It 
fell with a stiff thud. "Ja, ja," he said, 
half impatient, half laughing. "How is 
one to do it — such fool tricks ! Ja, 

ja!" 

The keen eyes watching him had a 
proud look. "You know what he will be 
— that boy," he said exultingly. " He will 
be a great musician!" 

" He will be a great bother," grumbled 
Kerlman. "First," he checked off the 
vices on his fingers — "first, he comes to 
us three weeks late — three weeks late — 
because his brother promises, and takes 
it back and waits to die — Bah !" He took 
a sip of beer and laid out another fat 
finger. "Second, he sings two octaves at 

[59] 



Unfinished Portraits 



the same time — two octaves ! Did one 
ever hear such nonsense ! Third, he loses 
his voice, his beautiful voice, and sings 
no more at all." He shook his head 
heavily. "Fourth, he is running away to 
Hamburg to listen — always to Hamburg, 
to listen to Reinken, and coming back to 
be forgiven. Ja, ja ! Seven times I have 
forgiven him. I think he is making ready 
now to go once more!" He glared at his 
companion. 

Bohm nodded slowly. "I was to ask 
you for that to-day," he said, smiling. 

"Ja! ja — I have thought so." He 
looked sadly at the four short fingers 
resting on the table. "And fifth — fifth 
— now what is that fifth ? Ach, it is that ! 
That thumb!" He scowled at it. "That 
crawling, snivelling, stiff-necked one!" 
He brought it down with a thump on 
the table. "To make me all my days 

[60] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



ashamed!" He held up the thumb and 
shook it scornfully. 

High up in the Johanneskirche, in 
front of the big organ, the boy was play- 
ing — with head and hands and heart and 
feet and thumb — swaying to the music, 
lifting it from the great organ till it 
pealed forth, a mighty sound, and, break- 
ing from the gloomy church, floated on 
the still air. ... In the garden across 
the way, above their mugs, two old, 
white-wigged heads nodded and chuckled 
in the sun. 



[61] 



V 

JL HE Katherinenkirche was dark, and 
very still — except for a faint noise that 
came from a far corner of the upper left- 
hand gallery. The old verger, moving 
about in felt slippers below, paused now 
and then, and looked up as the sound grew 
louder or died away. It was like a mouse 
nibbling — and yet it was not a mouse. 

The verger lighted a taper and pre- 
pared to ascend the stairs. 

He heaved a sigh as he climbed the 
steep step, throwing the candle rays 
ahead of him into the gloom of the gal- 
lery. Not a sound. The silence of death 
was in the big church. . . . Muttering to 
himself, he traversed the long aisle at the 
top of the gallery, peering down into the 
vacant seats that edged the blackness 
below. 

[62] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



Suddenly he stopped. His eye had 
caught a gleam of something to the left 
of the last pillar. He snuffed the waver- 
ing taper with his fingers and leaned 
forward. A face grew out of the darkness 
and stood up. 

"What are you doing ?" demanded the 
old man, falling back a step. 

"Eating my supper," said the youth. 
He held up a handkerchief. In the dim 
light two pieces of crisp, dry bread shaped 
themselves, and a generous odor of cheese 
floated out. 

"In the church!" said the verger, with 
an accent of horror. 

The youth's face regarded him plead- 
ingly. 

"Come away!" said the old man 
sternly. 

He led the way down the steep stair, 
into a high, small room, lighted by a 

[63] 



Unfinished Portraits 



narrow window over which cobwebs ran. 
"Here you may eat," he said laconic- 
ally. 

With a grateful glance the youth seated 
himself on the edge of a chair and open- 
ing his handkerchief took out a piece 
of the dry bread. His teeth broke it 
crisply, and crunched sharply upon it as 
he ate. 

The old man nodded with satisfaction. 
"That is the mouse," he said. 

The youth smiled faintly. 

"Where do you come from ?" asked the 
verger. 

"From Luneburg." 

"You walked?" 

The youth nodded. 

"I have seen you before, here." 

"Yes." 

The old man watched him a minute. 
"You ought to have some beer with that 

1 6 4 1 



Thumbs and Fugues 



bread and cheese," he said. "Have you 
no coppers ?" 

The youth shook his head. "Reinken 
is my beer," he said, after a little. His 
face was lighted with a sweet smile. 

The old man chuckled. "Ja, ja!" He 
limped from the room. Presently he re- 
turned with a pewter mug. It was foam- 
ing at the top. "Drink that," he com- 
manded. 

The youth drank it with hearty quaffs 
and laughed when it was done. "Ja, 
that is good !" he said simply. 

The old man eyed him shrewdly. "In 
half an hour Reinken comes to play," he 
suggested craftily. 

The youth started and flushed. "To- 
night?" 

"Ja." 

"I did not think he came at night," he 
said softly. 

[65] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Not often, but to-night. He wants to 
practise something for the festival — with 
no one to hear," he added significantly. 

The boy looked at him pleadingly. 
His hand strayed to his pockets. They 
brought back two coppers, the only 
wealth he possessed. 

The old man looked at him kindly 
and shook his head. "Nein," he said. 
"It is not for the money I shall do it. It 
is because I have seen you before — when 
he played. You shall hear him and see 
him. Come." He put aside the youth's 
impulsive hand, and led the way up a 
winding, dark stairway, through a little 
door in the organ-loft. Groping along the 
wall he slipped back a panel. 

The boy peered out. Below him, a 

little to the left, lay the great organ, and 

far below in the darkness stretched the 

church. When he turned, the old man 

[66] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



was gone. Down below in the loft he 
watched his twinkling path as the taper 
flashed from candle to candle. 

The great Reinken was a little late. 
He came in hurriedly, pushing back the 
sleeves of his scholar's gown as they fell 
forward on his hands. The hands were 
wrinkled, the boy noted, and old. He 
had forgotten that the master was old. 
Sixty years — seventy — ah, more than sev- 
enty. Nine years ago he was that — at 
the Bach festival. The boy's heart gave 
a leap. Seventy-nine — an old man! . . . 
he should never meet him in open festival 
and challenge him. There would not be 
time. . . . The music stole about him and 
quieted his pulse. He stood watching the 
face as it bent above the keys. It was a 
noble face. There was a touch of petu- 
lance in it, perhaps of pride and impa- 
tience in the quick glance that lifted now 

[6 7 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



and then. But it was a grand face, with 
goodness in it, and strength and power. 
The boy's heart went from him. ... If 
he might but touch a fold of the faded 
gown — seek a blessing from the wrinkled 
hands on the keys. Spring was about him 
— white clouds and blossoms and the 
smell of fresh earth. " By the waters, the 
waters of Babylon; by the waters." The 
slender, delicate hands called out the 
notes one by one. Tears ran down the 
boy's face. Gropingly he felt for the door 
— only to seek a blessing of the hands. . . . 

The old verger waited at the foot of 
the stairs, nodding in the dim light. He 
sprang up, startled and rubbing his eyes. 

"I want to speak to him," said the 
youth humbly. "Only a word!" 

The old man hesitated. The music had 
ceased and a slow step was coming down 
the church — an old man's step. 
[68] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



"Ja. Stand there," he whispered. "It 
shall be as you wish. Stand there!" 
He pushed the youth behind a pillar and 
stepped forward, his taper held aloft. 

"Mein Herr," he said softly. 

The organist paused and looked at him 
inquiringly. His face was very tired. 
"What wouldst thou, Wilhelm ?" he said 
gently. 

"It is a young man — " he stammered 
and paused. 

"A young man?" 

"He would speak with you, Mein Herr 
— but a word." The old man's voice 
waited. 

"Speak with me? Does he bring cre- 
dentials?" 

"Nay, your honor " 

The great organist drew his gown 
about him. "I have not time, Wilhelm. 
Many seek me and life runs fast. I have 

[69] 



Unfinished Portraits 



not time." He bowed courteously and 
moved on. As he passed the pillar a fold 
of his robe floated out and touched the 
hand of the youth, kneeling there, hidden 
in the dim light. 



[70] 



VI 



Ti 



HE choirmaster smiled deprecatingly. 
He had small, obsequious eyes and nar- 
row shoulders. "If the gracious Herr 
would be so good," he said, shrugging 
them a little. "The people have assem- 
bled." He glanced back over the fast- 
filling church and raised his eyebrows a 
trifle to indicate the honor. 

Bach smiled gravely. A humorous look 
came into his eyes. "Let the service go 
on as usual," he said quietly. "When it 
is done, I will play — if time allows." 

The choirmaster squeezed his moist 
palms and wiped an anxious brow. "And 
that, too — will be well," he murmured 
gratefully. "It will please the old organ- 
ist," he added apologetically. 

Bach nodded his head. "I had thought 
of that." 

[7i] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The other stared. "You know Rein- 
ken?" he asked. 

The great organist shook his head. "I 
have seen him." The humorous smile 
played about his lips. "I have never 
spoken with him." 

• "He has been a great player — in his 
day," said the choirmaster. The note of 
apology in his voice had deepened. 

"That I know," said Bach shortly. 

"And now it is the people — they will 
not let him go," murmured the choir- 
master despairingly. "Each Sunday he 
must play — every motet and aria and 
choral — and he is ninety-nine. Mein 
Gott!" The choirmaster wiped his brow. 

" It is a long life," said Bach musingly. 
A sweet look had come into his face, like 
the sunlight on an autumn field. He raised 
his hand with a courteous gesture. "Let me 
be summoned later — at the right time." 

1 72 1 



Thumbs and Fugues 



The choirmaster bowed himself away. 

Already the notes of the great organ 
filled the church. It was Reinken's touch 
upon the keys — feeble and tremulous 
here and there — but still the touch of the 
master. 

With bent head Bach moved to a 
place a little apart and sat down. Curi- 
ous glances followed him and whispers 
ran through the church, coming back to 
gaze at the severe, quiet face, with its 
look of sweetness and power. 

He was unconscious of the crowd. His 
thoughts were with the old man playing 
aloft — the thin, serene face — the wrinkled 
hands upon the keys — twenty years. . . . 
The time had come — at last. . . . The 
music stole through his musings and 
touched him. He lifted his face as the 
sound swept through the church. The fire 
and strength of youth had gone from the 

[ 73 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



touch, but something remained — some- 
thing inevitable and gentle that soothed 
the spirit and lifted the heart — like the 
ghost of a soul calling to itself from the 
past. 

Bach started. A hand had fallen on 
his shoulder. It was the choirmaster, 
small-eyed and eager. Bach followed him 
blindly. 

At the top of the stairs the choir- 
master turned and waited for him. "At 
last we have the honor. Welcome to the 
greatest master in Germany!" he said 
smoothly, throwing open the door. 

Without a word Bach brushed past 
him. His eye sought the great organ. 
The master had left the bench and sat 
a few steps below, leaning forward, his 
hands clasped on his cane, his white head 
nodding tremblingly above it. Far below 
the words of the preacher droned to a 

[74] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



close, and the crowd stirred and craned 
discreet necks. 

Quietly the organist slipped into the 
vacant place. The Bach festival danced 
before him. . . . Uncle Heinrich on the 
platform — "The great Reinken — will no 
one of you promise?" His father's face 
smiling, his father's hand on his head. . . . 
Slowly his hands dropped to the keys. 

The audience settled back with a sigh. 
At last they should hear him — the great 
Bach. 

The silence waited, deep and patient 
and unerring, as it had waited a decade 
— the touch of this man. A sound crossed 
it and the audience turned bewildered 
faces. Question and dissent and wonder 
were in them. . . . Not some mighty 
fugue, as they had hoped — not even an 
aria, but a simple air from a quaint, old- 
fashioned choral, — "By the waters, the 

[75] 



Unfinished Portraits 



waters of Babylon." They looked at one 
another with lifted brows. Reinken's 
choral ! — and played with Reinken's very 
touch — a gentle, hurrying rhythm . . . 
as Reinken used to play it — when he was 
young. ... In a moment they under- 
stood. Tears stood in bewildered eyes 
and a look of sweet good-will swept the 
church. He had given back to them their 
own. Their thought ran tenderly to the 
old man above, hearkening to his own 
soul coming to him, strong and swift and 
eternal, out of the years. Underneath the 
choral and above it and around, went 
the soul of Bach, steadfast and true, 
wishing only to serve, and through ser- 
vice making beautiful. He filled with 
wonder and majesty and tenderness the 
simple old choral. 

A murmur ran through the church, a 
sound of love and admiration. And above, 

[76] 



Thumbs and Fugues 



with streaming eyes, an old man groped 
his way to the organ, his hands held out 
to touch the younger ones that reached 
to him. "I thought my work had died," 
he said slowly, "Now that it lives, I can 
die in peace." 



[77] 



S Q£" S 3» 



A WINDOW OF MUSIC 

iti i "T in 



SO T' 1 ' ®> 



A Window of Music 

I 

"About so high, i should think," 

said the girl, with a swift twinkle. She 
measured off a diminutive man on the 
huge blue-and-white porcelain stove and 
stood back to survey it. "And about as 
big," she added reflectively. 

Her sister laughed. The girl nodded 
again. 

"And terribly homely," she said, mak- 
ing a little mouth. Her eyes laughed. She 
leaned forward with a mysterious air. 
"And, Marie, his coat is green, and his 
trousers are — white!" 

The two girls giggled in helpless amuse- 
ment. They had a stolid German air of 
family resemblance, but the laughing 
[81] 



Unfinished Portraits 



eyes of the younger danced in their 
round setting, while the sleepy blue ones 
of the older girl followed the twinkling 
pantomime with a look of half protest. 

"They were in the big reception- 
room," went on the girl, " and I bounced 
in on them. Mamma Rosine was giving 
him the family history — you and me." 

They giggled again. 

The younger one drew down her face 
and folded her hands in matronly dignity, 
gazing pensively at the blue-and-white 
stove, her head a little to one side. 

"My own voice is alto, Herr Schu- 
bert, and my daughter Caroline's; but 
my daughter Marie has a beautiful so- 
prano." She rolled her eyes, with an air 
of resigned sentiment, and shook the 
bobbing black curls gently from side to 
side. "And he just twiddled his thumbs 
like this, and grunted." She seized her 

[82] 



A Window of Music 



sister around her plump waist and shook 
her vigorously. "Don't you see it?" she 
demanded. 

The older girl laughed hysterically, 
with disturbed eyes. 

"Don't, Cara!" she protested. 

The dark eyes bubbled again. 

"And his hair curls as tight — " She 
ran a hand along her rumpled curls, then 
a look of dismay crossed the laughing 
face. She subsided into a chair and 
folded her hands meekly. The little feet, 
in their stout ankle-ties, swung back and 
forth beneath the chair, and the round, 
German face assumed an air of whole- 
some stupidity. 

Her sister, whose slow glance had fol- 
lowed hers, gave a little gasp, and sank 
into a chair on the opposite side of the 
stove, in duplicate meekness. 

The door at the other end of the room 

[8 3 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



had swung open, and a tall woman swept 
in, followed by a diminutive figure in 
green coat and white trousers. A pair of 
huge spectacles, mounted on a somewhat 
stumpy nose, peered absently from side 
to side as he approached. 

"My daughters, Herr Schubert," said 
the tall lady, with a circumflex wave of 
her white hand that included the wax- 
like figures on each side the stove. 

They regarded him fixedly and primly. 

His glance darted from one to the 
other, and he smiled broadly. 

"I haf seen the young Fraulein be- 
fore," he said, indicating the younger 
with his fat hand. 

The dark, round eyes gazed at him 
expressionless. His spectacles returned 
the gaze and twinkled. 

"She has come into the reception- 
room while you were explaining about 

[ 8 4 1 



A Window of Music 



the voice of Fraulein Marie," he said, 
with a glance at the other sister. 

The waxlike faces shook a little. 

The lady regarded them severely. 

"She is only eleven," she murmured 
apologetically to the little man. 

"Ja! So?" he muttered. His glance 
flashed again at the immovable face. 

"Caroline, my child, come here," said 
her mother. 

The child slipped down from the stiff 
chair and crossed to her mother's side. 
Her little hands were folded, and her 
small toes pointed primly ahead. 

"My youngest daughter, Herr Schu- 
bert," said the lady, slipping an arm 
around the stiff waist. "Caroline, this is 
your new music tutor, Herr Schubert." 

The child bobbed primly, and lifted a 
pair of dark, reflective eyes to his face. 

His own smiled shrewdly. 
[85] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"She will be a good pupil," he said; 
"it is the musical type." The green coat 
and white trousers bowed circumspectly 
to the small figure. 

"Now, Marie" — the tall lady shook 
out her skirts — "Herr Schubert will try 
your voice. But first, Herr Schubert, 
will you not give us the pleasure ? " She 
motioned politely toward the piano, and 
sank back with an air of fatigued senti- 
ment. 

He sat down on the stool and ran his 
white, fat fingers through his curling 
hair. It bristled a little. The fingers fell 
to his knees, and his big head nodded 
indecisively. Then it was thrown back, 
and the fingers dropped on the keys : the 
music of a Beethoven sonata filled the 
room. 

The grand lady forgot her sentiment, 
and the little waxlike figures gave way. 
Their eager, tremulous eyes rested won- 
[86] 



A Window of Music 



deringly on the broad back of the 
player. 

The white fingers had dropped on the 
keys with the lightness of a feather. They 
rose and flashed and twinkled, and ran 
along the keyboard with swift, steel-like 
touch. The door at the end of the room 
opened softly. A tall man entered. He 
looked inquiringly at the grotesque green- 
and-white figure seated before the piano, 
then his glance met his wife's, and he 
sank into a big chair by the door, a 
pleased look on his dark face. The younger 
child glanced at him shyly. He returned 
the look and smiled. The child's face 
brightened. 

The door opened again, and a slight 
figure stood in the doorway. He looked 
approvingly toward the piano, and 
dropped into a chair at the other side 
of the door, twirling his long, light 
mustaches. 

[8 7 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The player, wrapped in sound, was ob- 
livious to the world outside. The music 
enveloped him and rose about him, trans- 
figuring the plain, squat figure, floating 
above the spectacled face and crisp, curl- 
ing locks. His hearers glanced approv- 
ingly at one another now and then, but 
no one spoke or moved. Suddenly they 
were aware that a new mood had crept 
into the notes. Quick, sharp flashes of 
fear alternated with passages of clear, sun- 
lit strength, and underneath the chang- 
ing melody galloping hoof-beats rose and 
fell. 

The dark-eyed child sat poised for- 
ward, her hands clasped about her knees, 
her tremulous gaze fixed on the flying 
fingers. She started and caught her breath 
sharply. Faster and faster thudded the 
hoofs; the note of questioning fear beat 
louder, and into the sweet, answering 
[88] 



A Window of Music 



melody crept a note of doubt, undefined 
and terrible, a spirit echo of the flying 
hoofs. It caught up question and answer, 
and turned them to sharp, swift flight. 
The pursuing hoofs struck the sound and 
broke it; with a cry the child leaped to 
her feet. Her hands were outstretched, 
and her face worked. The man by the 
door turned slightly. He held out a quiet, 
imperious hand, and the child fled across 
the room, clasping the hand in both her 
own, and burying her face in his shoulder. 
The swift sound was upon them, around 
them, over them, sweeping past, whirling 
them in its leaping, gigantic grasp. It 
hesitated a second, grew strangely sweet 
and hushed, and dropped through a full, 
clear octave on a low note. It ceased. The 
air quivered. The player sat motionless, 
gazing before him. 
The dark man sprang to his feet, his 

[89] 



Unfinished Portraits 



face illumined, the child clinging to his 
hand. He patted the dark curls carelessly 
as he flashed a smile to the young man 
at the other side of the room. 

"That's mine, Sch6nstein,' , he said 
exultantly; "your tenor voice won't carry 
that." 

The other nodded half grudgingly. 

They were both looking toward the 
player. He swayed a little on the stool, 
stared at the ceiling a moment, and swung 
slowly about, blinking uncertainly. 

The older man stepped forward, hold- 
ing out a quick hand. 

"Wunderschon!" he said warmly. 
"What is it ? Are there words to it ? Can 
you get it for me ? " 

The tiny man seemed to shrink a 
little. He put out his fat hand and 
waited a moment before he spoke. The 
full, thick lips groped at the words. 

[90] 



A Window of Music 



"It is — it is something — of my own," 
he said at last. 

They crowded about him, questioning 
and delighted. 

"Have you published it ? What is it ?" 

"'Der Erlkonig,'" said Schubert 
shortly. The child's face quivered. 

"I know," she said. 

Her father glanced down at her, smil- 
ing. 

"What do you know ?" he said gently. 

"I read it," said the child, simply. 
She shivered a little. "The Erlking car- 
ried him off," she said. She covered her 
face, suddenly in tears. She was quiver- 
ing from head to foot. 

The count glanced significantly at his 
wife. She came forward and laid her 
hand on the child's shoulder. 

"Come, Caroline. Come, Marie," she 
said. "Later, Herr Schubert, I shall have 

[91] 



Unfinished Portraits 



the pleasure of thanking you." She swept 
from the room. 

The three men remained, looking a 
little uncomfortably toward the closed 
door. 

The count shrugged his shoulders and 
glanced at the musician. 

"A very impressionable child," he 
said lightly. 

"A very unusual child," returned the 
small man gravely. He was blinking ab- 
sently at the count's dark face. " She has 
the temperament," he murmured softly; 
"she will learn." 

The count beamed on him. 

"We depend on you to teach her," he 
said suavely. "You will go with us next 
week to Zelitz ?" 

The young man bowed uncertainly. 
His full lips smiled doubtfully. "It is an 
honor," he said, "but I must work. There 

[92] 



A Window of Music 



is not time to lose. I must work." He 
moved his big head from side to side and 
twirled his fingers. 

The count smiled genially. 

"It shall be arranged — a little house 
by yourself, apart from the castle — a 
piano, absolute quiet, lessons only by 
your own arrangement." He spoke qui- 
etly, in the tone of a superior granting 
terms. 

The thick lips opposite him were puck- 
ering a little, and the eyes behind the 
great spectacles blinked mistily. 

" I must have time," repeated the little 
man — "time to think of it." 

The count's face clouded a shade. 

"We depend on you," he said. The tone 
had changed subtly. It was less assertive. 
"With the Baron von Schonstein — " he 
motioned toward his companion; the two 
young men bowed slightly — "with the 

[93] 



Unfinished Portraits 



baron we have a fine quartet, and with 
you to train us — oh, you must come!" 
His face broke into a winning smile. 

The young man smiled in return. 

"I will come," he said; "but— free," 
he added. 

" Free as the wind," assented the count 
easily. The note of patronage was gone. 

A big sunny smile broke over the mu- 
sician's face. It radiated from the spec- 
tacles and broadened the wide mouth. 

" Ach ! We shall do great things!" he 
announced proudly. 

"Great things," assented the count. 
"And 'Der Erlk6nig , — I must have 'Der 
Erlkonig.' Bring it with you." 

"'Der Erlkonig' shall be yours," said 
Schubert grandly. There was the air of 
granting a royal favor in the round, 
green-and-white little figure as it bowed 
itself from the room. 

[94] 



A Window of Music 



In the hall he stumbled a little, look- 
ing uncertainly about. A small figure 
glided from a curtained window and ap- 
proached him timidly. 

"Your hat is on the next landing, Herr 
Schubert/' she said. 

He looked down at her. His big face 
flushed with pleasure. "You like my 
music," he said bluntly. 

She shook her head gravely. 

"It is terrible," she replied. 

The spectacles glared at her. 

"It hurts me here." She raised a small, 
dark hand to her chest. 

The musician's eyes lighted. 

"That is right," he said simply; "ja, 
that is right — it hurts." 

They stood looking at each other in 
the dim light. The child's eyes studied 
the big face wistfully. 

"I wish you would never play it again." 

[9Sl 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Not play my 'Erlkonig!'" He glared 
at her. 

She nodded slowly. 

"Never," she said. 

He waited a moment, looking at her 
sternly. He pushed his spectacles far up 
on the short curls and rubbed his nose 
vigorously. 

The child's eyes waited on the queer, 
perturbed face. She gave a quick little 
sigh. Her lips had parted. 

He looked down with a sudden big 
smile. 

"I will never play it for you again," 
he said grandly. The spectacles descended 
swiftly, the door banged behind him, 
and the child was left alone in the great 
dim hall. 



[96] 



•« * ga- 

ll 



Ti 



HE heat of the day was nearly spent, 
but the leaves of the oaks hung motion- 
less. The two young men walking be- 
neath them had bared their heads. One 
of them glanced up now and then, as if 
looking for coolness in the green canopy. 

"It will rain before night," said the 
baron, casually, noting the glance. His 
lithe figure, in its white suit and blue tie, 
showed no sign of heat or fatigue. 

The musician, puffing beside him, wiped 
a handkerchief across his warm face. 

" Ja, it will rain/' he assented hopefully. 

The baron glanced at him, smiling. 

"You find ten miles a good stretch," 
he remarked. "We went too far, perhaps." 

"Nein, not too far. We have had great 
talk," responded Schubert. His face un- 
der its mask of perspiration shone glori- 

[97] 



Unfinished Portraits 



ously. He glanced down a little ruefully 
at his short, fat legs in their white cas- 
ings. "But my legs they do not talk," he 
announced naively. "Ja, they are very 
weary, perhaps; but my soul is not 
weary." He struck his breast a resound- 
ing blow with the palm of his hand and 
straightened his short body. 

The baron laughed musically. 

A low, sweet sound, stealing among 
the oaks, answered the laugh. They 
stopped short, looking at each other. 
The sound came again, a far-off, haunt- 
ing peal, with a little catch and sob in 
its breath. 

They stole swiftly forward on tiptoe. 
Among the trees a roof and the outline 
of a small building glimmered. It was cov- 
ered with dark ivy. Smoke came from 
the chimney, and through the open win- 
dow drifted the strange, alluring sound. 

1 98 ] 



A Window of Music 



"The house of the little folk of the 
wood," whispered Schubert, pressing for- 
ward. 

"The wash-house," returned the baron, 
with a laugh. 

The sound had ceased. The wood, in 
the soft heat, was very still. 

"It is Marka," said the baron, glanc- 
ing toward the house. "Marka has charge 
of the linen. I heard her the other day, 
in one of the corridors, singing; but Fritz 
hushed her up before she'd begun. She's 
a Hungarian " 

"Hush!" Schubert lifted a finger. 

The music had begun again. The sad- 
ness was gone from it. It laughed and 
smiled to itself, and grew merry in a 
sweet, shy fashion that set the air about 
them astir in little rippling runs. 

Schubert had started forward. 

"I must have it!" he said impetuously. 

[99] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Take care!" warned Schonstein; "she 
is a witch." 

The musician laughed, stealing away 
among the tree-trunks. He moved softly 
forward, his short fingers fumbling at his 
pockets. A torn envelope and the stub of 
a pencil rewarded the search. His face 
lighted as he grasped the pencil more 
firmly in his fingers, moistening it at his 
thick lips; he approached the open win- 
dow. 

He peered uncertainly into the dim 
room. By the fireplace stood a lithe, quick 
figure, sorting the pile of linen at her side. 
As she lifted each delicate piece she exam- 
ined it for holes or rents. Careless little 
snatches of song played about her lips 
as she worked. 

The torn envelope rested on the sill, 
and the stubby pencil flew across its 
surface. The big face of the musician, 
[ ioo] 



A Window of Music 



bent above it, was alight with joy. The 
sound ceased, and he straightened him- 
self, pushing back the hat from his brow, 
and gazing fondly at the little dots on 
the torn bit of paper. 

The girl looked up with a start. The 
shadow had fallen on her linen. She 
gazed with open, incredulous lips at the 
uncouth figure framed in the window. 

A broad smile wreathed the big face. 

"Go on, Marka," he said. He nodded 
encouragement. 

She looked down at the pillow-slip in 
her hands, and back again to the face in 
the window. The linen slip was plaited 
uncertainly in her fingers. 

"Go on," said Schubert peremptorily. 
"You were singing. What was it, that 
tune ? Go on." 

She looked up again with bold shyness, 
and shook her head. 

[IOI] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The face glared at her. 

She smiled saucily, and, putting two 
plump hands into her apron pockets, ad- 
vanced toward the window. Her steps 
danced a little. 

Franz stared at the vision. He took 
off his spectacles and rubbed them, blink- 
ing a little. 

"Waugh!" he said. 

She laughed musically. 

He replaced the spectacles, and looked 
at her more kindly. 

She was leaning on the other side of 
the casing, her arms folded on the sill. 
Her saucy face was tilted to his. 

He bent suddenly, and kissed it full 
on the mouth. 

She started back, fetching him a ring- 
ing slap on the cheek. 

"You ugly thing!" she said. She 
laughed. 

[ 102] 



A Window of Music 



Franz gazed serenely at the sky, a 
pleased smile on his lips. 

"You're too ugly to look at," said the 
girl promptly. 

He looked down at her and smiled. 

"That tasted good," he said. 

She pouted a little and glanced at the 
door. 

His glance followed hers. 

"Sing me some more," he suggested 
craftily. 

She threw back her head, and her lips 
broke into a strange, sweet sound. The 
dark eyes were half veiled, and her full 
throat swelled. 

The wood about them darkened as she 
sang. Swift birds flashed by to their 
nests, and the green leaves quivered a 
little. A clash broke among the tree-tops; 
they swayed and beat heavily, and big 
drops fell. The girl's eyes flashed wide. 
[ 103 1 



Unfinished Portraits 



The song ceased on her lips. She glanced 
at the big drops on the sill and then at 
the open door. 

"Come in," she said shyly. 

He opened the door and went in. 



[104] 



# >* "T in 

in 

W E feared that you were not com- 
ing, Herr _ Schubert," said the countess 
suavely. 

The group had gathered in the music- 
room. . . . The storm had ceased, and a 
cool breeze came through the window. 
Outside in the castle grounds dim lights 
glimmered. 

The young man advanced into the 
group a little awkwardly, rubbing his 
eyes as if waking from a dream. 

The baron, standing by the piano, 
glanced at him sharply under lowered 
lids. His lips took on a little smile, not 
unkind, but full of secret amusement. 

The musician passed him without a 
glance, and, seating himself at the piano, 
threw back his head with an impatient 
gesture. He turned swiftly the leaves of 

[iosl 



Unfinished Portraits 



music that stood on the rack before 
him. 

"Sing this," he said briefly. 

He struck a few chords, and they gath- 
ered about him, taking up their parts 
with a careless familiarity and skill. It 
was Haydn's "Creation." They had sung 
it many times, but a new power was in 
it to-night. The music lifted them. The 
touch on the keys held the sound, and 
shaped it, and filled it with light. 

When it was finished they glanced at 
one another. They smiled; then they 
looked at the player. He sat wrapped in 
thought, his head bowed, his fingers 
touching the keys with questioning touch. 
They moved back noiselessly and waited. 
When he was like this, they did not dis- 
turb him. 

The melody crept out at last, the 
strange, haunting Hungarian air, with 
[ 106 ] 



A Window of Music 



unrest and sadness and passion and 
sweetness trembling through it. 

The baron started as he heard it. He 
moved carelessly to the window and 
stood with his back to the room, looking 
out. 

The countess looked up with a startled 
air. She glanced inquiringly toward her 
husband. He was leaning forward, a 
look of interest on his dark face. The 
child at his knee shrank a little. Her eyes 
were full of a strange light. On the oppo- 
site side of the room her sister Marie sat 
unmoved, her placid doll eyes resting on 
the player with a look of gentle content. 

The passionate note quickened. Some- 
thing uncanny and impure had crept into 
it. It raised its head and hissed a little 
and was gone, gliding away among the 
low notes and losing itself in a rustling 
wave of sound. . . . The music trembled 
[ 107] 



Unfinished Portraits 



2l moment and was still; then the passion 
burst in a flood upon them. Dark chasms 
opened; strange, wild fastnesses shut 
them in; storm and license and evil held 
them. Blinding flashes fell on them. 
Slowly the player emerged into a wide 
sunlit place. The music filled it. Winds 
blew from the four quarters to meet it, 
and the air was full of melody. 

The count stirred a little as the last 
notes fell. 

"A strange composition," he said 
briefly. 

The child at his knee lifted her head. 
She raised a tiny hand and brought it 
down sharply, her small face aglow with 
suppressed anger. 

"It was not good! ,, she said. 

The player turned to look at her. His 
big face worked strangely. 

"No, it was not good," he said. "I 
[108] 



A Window of Music 



shall not play that again. But it is great 
music," he added, with a little laugh. 

The count looked at him shrewdly. 
He patted the child's trembling hand. 

"Now," he said soothingly, "some- 
thing to clear away the mists! 'Der 
Erlkonig.' We have never had it; bring 
it out." 

Schubert hesitated an instant. He 
glanced at the child. 

"That music — I have it not, Herr 
Count — I left it in Vienna." 

The count moved impatiently. 

"Play it from memory," he said. 

The musician turned slowly to the 
piano. 

The child's eyes followed him. She 
shivered a little. 

He swung back with a swift gesture, 
feeling absently in his pockets. 

A piece of tissue-paper," he mur- 
[109] 



t( 



Unfinished Portraits 



mured. He had extracted a small comb 
from one of his pockets. He regarded it 
thoughtfully. " If I had one little piece of 
paper — " He looked about him helplessly. 

"There is some in the music-rack, 
Marie. Find it for him," said the count. 

The girl found it and laid it in his hand. 

He turned back to the piano, adjust- 
ing and smoothing it. His broad back was 
an effective screen. The group waited, a 
look of interest on their faces. 

Suddenly he wheeled about, his hands 
raised to his mouth, the comb, thinly 
covered with tissue-paper, at his lips, 
and his fat cheeks distended. His eyes 
behind the big spectacles glowed por- 
tentously. 

They gazed at him in astonishment. 

He drew a full breath and drove it 
forth, a lugubrious note. With scowling 
brows and set face he darted the instru- 
[no] 



A Window of Music 



ment back and forth across his puckered 
lips. It wailed and shrieked, and out of 
the noise and discord emerged, at a gal- 
loping trot, "Der Erlkonig!" 

The child, who had been regarding 
him intently, threw back her head, and 
a little laugh broke from her lips. Her 
face danced. She came and stood by the 
player, her hand resting on his knee. 

Herr Schubert puffed and blew, and 
"The Erlking" pranced and thumped. 
Now and then he stumbled and fell, and 
the fugitives flew fast ahead. 

The player's face was grave beyond 
belief, filled with a kind of fat melan- 
choly, and tinged with tragic intent. 

The faces watching it passed from 
question to amusement, and from amuse- 
ment to protest. 

"Nein, nein, mein Herr!" said the 
countess, as she wiped her mild blue 

[mi 



Unfinished Portraits 



eyes and shook her blond curls. "Nicht 
mehr ! nicht mehr I" 

With a deep, snorting sob the sound 
ceased. The comb dropped from his lips, 
and the player sat regarding them sol- 
emnly. A smile curved his big lips. 

"Ja," he said simply, "that was great 
music. I have made it myself, that 
music." 

With laughter and light words the 
party broke up. At a touch from the 
count the musician lingered. The others 
had left the room. 

The count walked to the open window 
and stood for a moment staring into the 
darkness. Then he wheeled about. 

"What was it you played?" he said 
swiftly. 

"A Hungarian air," replied Schubert 
briefly. 

The count looked incredulous. 

[112] 



A Window of Music 



"It was your own," he said. 

"Partly,'' admitted the musician. 

The count nodded. 

"I thought so." He glanced toward 
the piano. "It is not too late " 

Schubert shrugged his shoulders. 

"I told the child — you heard — I can- 
not play it again, that music." 

The count laughed lightly. 

"As you like." He held out a hand. 
"Good night, my friend," he said cor- 
dially. "You are a strange man." 

The grotesque, sensitive face opposite 
him quivered. The big lips trembled a 
little as they opened. 

"I am not a strange man," said Schu- 
bert vehemently. "That music — it was 
—the devil!" 

The count laughed again lightly. He 
held out his hand. 

"Good night," he said. 

[113] 



IV 



A 



SOFT haze hung over Zelitz. The 
moonlight, filtering through it, touched 
the paths and shrubs with shifting radi- 
ance and lifted them out of shadow. Un- 
der the big trees the darkness lay black, 
but in the open spaces it had given way 
to a gray, elusive whiteness that came 
and went like a still breathing of the 
quiet night. 

A young girl, coming down one of the 
winding paths, paused a moment in the 
open space to listen. The hand that held 
her trailing, shimmering skirts away 
from the gravel was strong and supple, 
and the face thrown back to the moon- 
light wore a tense, earnest look; but the 
dark eyes in their curving lids were like 
a child's eyes. They seemed to laugh 
subtly. It may have been that the moon- 
light shifted across them. 

[ 114] 



A Window of Music 



A young man, standing in the shadow 
of the trees, smiled to himself as he 
watched her. He stepped from beneath 
the trees and crossed the open space be- 
tween them. 

The girl watched him come without 
surprise. 

"It is a beautiful night, Herr Schu- 
bert," she said quietly as he stood be- 
side her. 

"A wonderful night, my lady," he an- 
swered softly. 

She looked down at him. 

"Why are you not in the castle, play- 
ing?" she demanded archly. 

"The night called me," he said. 

She half turned away. 

He started forward. 

"Do not go," he breathed. 

She paused, looking at him doubtfully. 

"I came to walk," she said. She moved 
away a few steps and paused again, look- 

[«5] 



Unfinished Portraits 



ing back over her shoulder. "You can 
come " 

He sprang to her side, and they paced 
on in silence. 

She glanced at him from under her 
lids. 

His big face wore a radiant, absent- 
minded look. The full lips moved softly. 

"What are you thinking of?" she said 
swiftly. 

He flushed and came back to her. 

"Only a little song; it runs in my head." 

"Hum it to me," she commanded. 

He flushed again and stammered: 

"Nein, nein; it is not yet born." 

Her eyes were on the shifting light. 

"Will you play it to me when it is 
done?" she asked softly. 

"You know that I will." 

She waited a moment. 

"You have never dedicated a song to 
[116] 



A Window of Music 



me," she said slowly. "There are the 
four to my father — but he is the count; 
and the one last year for Marie — why 
to Marie ? — and one for them all. But 
not one least little song for me!" The 
words had dropped under her breath. 
Her dark eyes were veiled. No one could 
say whether they laughed now. 

He looked up with a swift, brusque 
gesture. 

"They are all yours; you know it." 
The low voice rebuked her gently. " For 
six years they are yours — all that I have 
done." The face was turned toward her. 
It was filled with pleading and a kind of 
gentle beauty, clumsy and sweet. 

She did not look at it. 

"There is one that I should like to 
hear," she said musingly. "You played 
it once, years ago, on a comb. I have not 
heard it since." She laughed sweetly. 

[117] 



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Schubert smiled. The hurt look stole 
from his eyes. 

"You will hear it — my 'Erlkonig' ?" 
he demanded. 

She nodded. 

"I will play it to you when I come 
back," he said contentedly. 

She stopped short in the path. 

"When you come back!" The subtle 
eyes were wide. They were not laughing. 

"Ja, I shall " 

"Where are you going?" 

He rubbed his great nose in the moon- 
light. 

"Nein, I know not. I know I must 

go " 

She stopped him impatiently. 

"You will not go!" she said. He 
turned his eyes and looked at her. After 
a moment her own fell. "Why will you 
go ?" she asked. 

[118] 



A Window of Music 



The face with its dumb look was 
turned toward her. 

"That little song — it calls me," he 
said softly. "When it is done I will come 
back again — to you." 

She smiled under the lids. 

"That little song — is it for me?" she 
asked sweetly. 

"Ja, for you." He looked pleadingly 
at the downcast face. "The song — it is 
very sweet; it teases me." 

The lids quivered. 

"It comes to me so close, so close!" 
He was silent, a rapt look of listening in 
his face. It broke with a swift sigh. 
"Ach! it is gone!" 

She glanced at him swiftly. 

"I thought the songs came quickly." 

He shook his head. 

"The others, yes; but not this one. 
It is not like the others. It is so sweet 

[119] 



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and gentle — far away — and pure like the 
snow. ... It calls me — " He broke off, 
gazing earnestly at the beautiful, high- 
bred face, with its downcast eyes. 

"Nein! I cannot speak it," he said 
softly. "But the song it will speak it for 
me — when I come." 

She lifted her head, and held out her 
hand with a gesture half shy and very 
sweet. 

The moonlight veiled her. "I shall 
wait," she said gently — "for the song." 

He held the slender hand for a mo- 
ment in his own; then it was laid lightly 
against his lips, and turning, he had dis- 
appeared among the shadows. 



[120] 



*** -** * 



"HALLO, Franz! Hallo— there!" 

Two young men, walking rapidly along 
the low hedge that shuts in the Zum 
Biersack from the highway, lifted heated 
faces and glanced toward the enclosure, 
where a youth seated at one of the tables 
had half risen from his place, and was 
gesticulating with the open book in his 
hand to vacant seats beside him. 

"It is Tieze," said Schubert, with a 
smile. "Come in." 

His companion nodded. The next in- 
stant a swift waiter had served them, and 
three round, smiling faces surveyed one 
another above the foaming mugs. 

"Ach!" said Tieze, looking more criti- 
cally at the shorter man, "but you have 
grown thin, my friend. You are not so 
great." 

[121] 



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Schubert smiled complacently. He 
glanced down at his rotund figure. 

"Nein, I am little," he assented affa- 
bly. 

His companions broke into a roar of 
laughter. 

" Drink her down, Franz ! drink her 
down!" said Tieze, lifting the heavy 
stein. 

Schubert wiped the foam from his lips. 

" Ja, that is good !" He drew a deep 
sigh. 

He reached out his hand for the open 
volume that lay by his companion's 
hand. It was given over in silence, and 
he dipped into it as he sipped the beer, 
smiling and scowling and humming softly. 
Now and then he lifted his head and 
listened. His eyes looked across the noisy 
garden into space. 

His companions ignored him. They 
[122] 



A Window of Music 



laughed and chatted and sang. Other 
young men joined the group, and the 
talk grew loud. It was the Sunday fes- 
tival of Warseck. 

Schubert smiled absently across the 
babel. 

"A pencil — quick!" he said in a low 
tone to Tieze. His hand holding the open 
book trembled, and the big eyes glowed 
with fire. 

Tieze fumbled in his pockets and shook 
his head. 

Schubert glared at the careless group. 

"A pencil, I tell you !" he said fiercely. 

There was a moment's lull. Nobody 
laughed. Some one thrust a stub of pen- 
cil across the table. A fat young man sit- 
ting at Schubert's side seized it and, 
drawing a few music-bars on the back 
of a programme, pushed it on to him. 

"Ach!" said Schubert, with a grateful 

[123 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



sigh, "Goot — goot!" In another moment 
he was lost. 

The talk grew louder. Hurried waiters 
rushed back and forth behind his chair 
with foaming mugs and slices of black 
bread, and gray and brown. Fiddles 
squeaked, and skittle-players shouted. 
Now and then the noise broke off and 
changed to the national air, which the 
band across the garden played loudly. 
But through it all Schubert's big head 
wagged absently, and his short-sighted 
eyes glared at the barred lines and flying 
pencil. 

Suddenly he raised his head with a 
snort. His spectacles flew to his forehead, 
and his round face smiled genially at the 
laughing group. 

"Done?" asked the fat young man 
with a smile. He reached out his hand 
for the scrawled page. 
[124] 



A Window of Music 



Schubert drew it jealously back. 

"Nein," he said quickly. 

Tieze, who had come around the table, 
stood behind them, scanning the barred 
lines and the scattered shower of notes. 
He raised a quick hand to the group 
about the table. 

"Gott im Himmel!" he said excitedly. 
"Listen, you dunderheads!" 

Silence fell on the group. Every glance 
was turned to him. He hummed softly a 
few bars of sweetest melody — under the 
garden's din. . . . The notes stopped in 
a choking gasp, Schubert's hand on his 
throat. 

"Stop that!" he said hoarsely. The 
paper had been thrust loosely into his 
coat pocket. His face worked fiercely. 

Tieze drew back, half laughing, half 
alarmed. 

"Franz ! Franz !" he said. 
I 125 ] 



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The other brushed his hand across his 
forehead and drew a deep breath. 

"Ja," he said slowly, "I might have 
killed you." 

Tieze nodded. A look of curiosity held 
his face. 

"It is schon!" he said softly. "Schon!" 

Schubert turned abruptly. 

"It is not for you. . . . For years I 
search that song, over mountains, in the 
storm, in the sunshine; but it has never 
come — till here." His eye swept the 
crowded place. "Now I have it" — he 
patted the rough coat pocket — "now I 
have it, I go away." 



[126] 



VI 



Ti 



HE girl sitting on a rough bench by 
the low building stirred slightly. She 
glanced behind her. Deep blackness in 
the wood, shifting moonshine about her. 
She breathed a quick sigh. It was like 
that other night. Ah, he would not 
come ! 

Her face fell forward into her slender 
fingers. She sat immovable. The shadow 
trembled a little, but the girl by the low 
house was blind and deaf. Melodies of 
the past were about her. The shadow 
moved, but she had no eyes to see; 
slowly it travelled across the short- 
cropped grass, mystically green and white 
in the waning moon. Noiselessly it came; 
it sank noiselessly into the shadow of the 
low house. A sound clicked and was still. 
But the girl had not moved — memory 
[127] 



Unfinished Portraits 



music held her. It moved upon her spirit, 
low and sweet, and stirred the pulse, and 
breathed itself away. 

She stirred a little, and laid her cheek 
upon her palm. Her opened eyes rested 
carelessly on the ground; her look flashed 
wide and leaped to the lattice window 
beside her, and back again to the ground. 
A block of light lay there, clear and de- 
fined. It was not moonlight or dream- 
light. She sprang to her feet and moved 
a step nearer the window. Then she 
stopped, her hand at her side, her breath 
coming quickly. The high, sweet notes 
were calling from the night. Swiftly she 
moved. The door gave lightly beneath 
her touch. She crossed the smooth floor. 
She was by his side. The music was around 
them, above them, shimmering. It held 
them close. Slowly he turned his big, 
homely face and looked at her, but the 

[128] 



A Window of Music 



music did not cease. It hovered in the 
air above, high and pure and sweet. The 
face of the young countess bent lower; 
a look of tenderness waited in her subtle 
eyes. 

He sprang to his feet, his hands out- 
stretched to ward it off. 

"Nein. It is not /. It is the music. 
You shall not be bewitched !" His hands 
made swift passes, as if he would banish 
a spell. 

She caught them to her and waited. 

"Am I bewitched — Franz?" she said 
at last. The voice was very low. The 
laughing eyes were looking into his. 

"Ja, you are bewitched," he returned 
stoutly. 

"And you?" 

"I have only love for you." 

"And I have only love for you," she 
repeated softly. She hummed a bit of the 
[ 129] 



Unfinished Portraits 



melody and stopped, looking at him 
sweetly. "It is my song," she questioned 
— "the song you went to seek for me ?" 

He lifted his head proudly. 

"It came for you." 

She nodded with brimming eyes. Her 
hands stole softly up to the big face. 
They framed it in, with its look of pride, 
and touched it gently. "Dear face!" she 
breathed, "dear ugly face — my music 
face!" 

They moved swiftly apart. The figure 
of the count was in the open doorway. 

She moved forward serenely and slipped 
her hand in his. 

"I am here, Father Johann," she said 
quietly. 

His fingers closed about the white 
ones. 

"Go outside, Cara. Wait there till I 
come." 



[130] 



A Window of Music 



Her dark, troubled eyes looked into 
his. They were not laughing now. 

"Nay, father," she said gently, "it is 
you who will wait outside — while we say 
farewell." 

The count regarded her for a long mo- 
ment, then he turned toward the young 
musician, his face full of compassion and 
a kind of envy. 

"My friend," he said slowly, "for five 
minutes I shall leave her with you. You 
will go away — forever." 

Schubert bowed proudly. His eyes were 
on the girl's face. 

As the door closed, she turned to him, 
holding out her hands. 

He took them in his, and they stood 
silent, looking into each other's eyes. 

She drew a long breath. 

"What do people say when they are 
dying?" she asked. 

1 131 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Nein, I know not." His voice trem- 
bled. 

"There is so much, and it is nothing," 
said the girl dreamily. She moved a step 
toward the piano, his hands locked fast 
in hers. "Tell me again you love me!" 
she whispered. 

He took off the great spectacles, and 
laid them beside the scrawled page. 

"Look in my eyes," he said gently. A 
kind of grandeur had touched the homely 
features. The soul behind them looked 
out. 

She bent toward him. A little sob 
broke from her lips. She lifted the hands 
and moved them swiftly toward the keys. 

"Tell me!" she said. 

With a smile of sadness, he obeyed the 
gesture. 

Melody filled the room. It flooded the 
moonlight. The count, pacing back and 
[ 132] 



A Window of Music 



forth, halted, a look of bewilderment in 
his face. He stepped swiftly toward the 
door. 

The lights on the piano flared uncer- 
tainly. They fell on the figure at the 
piano. It loomed grotesque and grim, 
and melted away in flickering shadow. 
Music played about it. Strains of sadness 
swept over it in the gloom and drifted 
by, and the sweet, high notes rose clear. 
A little distance away the figure of the 
young countess stood in the shifting 
light. Her clasped hands hung before 
her. She swayed and lifted them, grop- 
ing, and turned. Her father sprang to 
her. Side by side they passed into the 
night. The music sounded about them 
far and sweet. 

Franz Schubert, with his youth and 
his wreaths of fame, his homely face and 

[133 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



soul of fire, is dead these many years; 
but the soul of fire is not dead. . . . The 
Countess Esterhazy, framed for love, is 
dust and ashes in her marble house. The 
night music plays over her tomb. 

The night music plays wherever night 
is. 



[134] 



*** ■fTTTTl - *** 



FREDERIC CHOPIN— A 
RECORD 



€K 



Frederic Chopin— A Record 

** * == aw- 

Paris, October 6, 1837. 

±T has rained all day. No one has been 
in. No fantasies have crept to my soul. 
Nothing to break the ceaseless, mo- 
notonous drip, drip, drip on my heart. 
No one but a garqon from the florist's 
bringing violets — the great swelling bunch 
of English violets — Jane Stirling's vio- 
lets ! Heavens, what a woman ! I am 
like her now, in the little mirror on 
my desk. Merely thinking of her has 
made me so! The great aquiline nose — 
the shrewd, canny Scotch look — and the 
big mouth — alas, that mouth! When it 
smiles I am enraged. Oh, Jane ! Why 
dost thou haunt me, night and day, with 
thy devotion and thy violets — and thy 

[137] 



Unfinished Portraits 



nose ! Let women be gentle, with soft 
glances that thrill — soft, dark flames. 
Constantia's glance ? Constantia ? Nay, 
fickle. Fickle moon of yesternight that 
drips — drips — drips. Will it never cease ! 
I cannot play the pain away. It eats into 
my heart. Yet life was made for joy and 
love — love — love — sweet as dream-light 
— sweet as music — sad and sweet and 
gay — love ! The weariness rests upon me. 
The silver clock ticks. It chimes the pain. 
One — two — three — nine — ten. The night 
wears slowly. I must break the burden. 
I will look into a woman's face, and rest. 

Paris, October 10, 1837. 

It was a thought of inspiration. I 
threw off the ugly loose coat and my 
ennui together. I plunged into the fra- 
grant bath. Little tunes hummed to me 
as I rose from it. I put on clean, fresh 

[138] 



Frederic Chopin — A Record 

linen — fine as silk — and evening dress. 
My blood coursed freely, and the scent 
of violets came to me sweetly. It fol- 
lowed through the wet, dripping streets, 
and clung to me as I ascended the softly 
carpeted stair to the salon of the Coun- 
tess Czosnowska. I was merry in my soul. 
Then a shadow crossed me. It fell upon 
my shoulder, and I turned in fear to 
look. No one — except a naked Venus on 
the wall. My good angel drew me on. I 
have seen her thrice since then. It seems 
a day. She came and looked into my 
eyes, while I played. It was fairy-music, 
witching and sweet — a little sad — the 
fairies of the Danube. My heart danced 
with them in the fatherland. Her eyes 
looked into mine. Sombre eyes — strange 
eyes. What did they say ? She leaned for- 
ward on the piano, gazing at me passion- 
ately. My soul leaped back and stood at 
[ 139] 



Unfinished Portraits 



bay. The strange eyes smiled. It was 
a man's face — breadth and depth and 
coarseness — and the strange, sad eyes. 
I longed for them and shrank upon my- 
self. She moved away. Later we spoke 
together — commonplaces. Liszt brought 
her to me, where I was sitting alone. 
Camellias framed us in. A sweet shadow 
rested on my heart. She praised my 
playing — gently. She understood. But 
the strong, sad, ugly face ! I have seen 
her twice since then. In her own salon, 
with the noblest minds of France about 
her — and once alone. Beautiful face 
— haunting sadness ! Aurora — sweetest 
name ! She loves me ! Day-spring — loved- 
one ! The night lags 

Paris, November 5, 1838. 
We are to go away together — to the 
South. There is a strange pain at my 
[ Ho] 



Frederic Chopin — A Record 

chest, a haunting cough. It will not let 
me go. I shall escape it — in the South. 
She cares for me, day and night. Her 
sweet breath ! My mother's face is sad 
in my dreams. I shall not dream when 
the sun shines warm upon me — in the 
South 

Majorca, November 16, 1838. 
We are alone — two souls — in this island 
of the sea. The surf beats at night. I lie 
and listen. Jane Stirling came to see 
us off. She brought violets — great, swell- 
ing English violets. I smell them in the 
mouldy cloister cells, night and day. 
This monks' home is cold and bleak. 
The wind rattles through it, and at 
night it moans. A chill is on me. When I 
cough it echoes through my heart. I 
love the light. Sweet music waits the 
light. I will not die. The shadow haunts. 

[hi] 



Unfinished Portraits 



But life is strong. Jane's violets on my 
grave ! I will not die. 

Paris, March 14, 1839. 
Paris — gay, live Paris ! The cabs rat- 
tle sweetly on the stones. I can breathe 
now. The funeral dirge will wait. In 
Marseilles we came upon Nourrit — dead. 
Poor Adolphe! He could not bear the 
weight. A crash into eternity! I knew it 
all. The solemn mass ascended for his 
soul — and high above it all, I spoke in 
swelling chords — mystery — pain — justice 
— the fatherland. A requiem for his soul 
— for Chopin's soul ? And Heine smiles. 
Brave Heine ! With death upon his heart 
— inch by inch he fights it — with laughs. 
I saw him yestermorn. His great eyes 
winked. They made a bet at me. He will 
outlast us yet, he swore, ten years. 
Brave fight ! Shall I live to see it stop — 
[142] 



Frederic Chopin — A Record 

gasp — the last quip fail on sunny lips ? I 
peer into the years between. They hang 
among the mists. Aurora comes. It is a 
week. Sweet day-spring ! 

Nohant, October n, 1839. 
They tell me I am well. The cough has 
ceased and the pain. But deep below, it 
beats. Aurora's eyes are veiled. Only 
when I play will they glow. They fill the 
world with light. I sit and play softly 
— her pen moves fast. She can write with 
music — music— over her — around — Cho- 
pin's music, whispered low — but clear as 
love. They said once George Sand was 
clever. It is Chopin's touch that makes 
her great. It eats the soul. For thee, 
Aurora, I could crawl upon the earth. I 
would not mind. I give thee all. I ask a 
glance — a touch — a smile when thou art 
weary — leave to love thee and to make 

[143] 



Unfinished Portraits 



sweet music. Thou wilt not be too cruel, 
love — with thy veiled eyes ? 

Nohant, May 3, 1847. 
I must have money. I am a burden — 
sick — a cough that racks the soul. Au- 
rora comes but seldom. The cough hurts 
her. She is busy. I do not look into her 
eyes. I lie and gaze across the field. It 
stretches from my window — sunny, 
French field ! Miles away, beneath a Po- 
lish sky, I see my mother's eyes. Unshed 
tears are heavy. "Fritz, little Fritz," she 
calls to me, "thou wilt be a great musi- 
cian. Poland will be proud of thee I" 
Poland — dear land — proud of Frederic 
Chopin ! My heart is empty. It aches. 

Nohant, June 1, 1847. 
It is over. Life has stopped. A few 
years more or less, perhaps. But never 

[ H4] 



Frederic Chopin — A Record 

life again. I do not write the words. 
They hammer at my brain. She spoke so 
sharply — and my soul was sick. I did 
not think she could. If she had waited — 
I would not have tarried long, not too 
long, Aurora. Hadst thou waited — weary 
of the burden, the sick burden of my 
complaint ! Money — I shall work — 
Waltzes that the public loves — and pays 
for. Mazurkas from a torn heart ! I shall 
work — a little while — 20,000 francs to 
set me free ! I will die free ! 

Paris, June 10, 1847. 
Strange fortune that besets a man ! 
The 20,000-franc paper is in my hand. 
I turn it. I look at it. Jane Stirling 
and her goodness haunt my gloom. She 
only asks to give. Strange, uncouth, 
Scotch lady! With thy heart of gold, 
thy face of iron, and thy foot of lead ! 

[14s] 



Unfinished Portraits 



Thy francs lie heavy in my hand. "Mas- 
ter/' she writes my name. She only asks 
to give. But women should be gentle, 
with soft, dark eyes that thrill. The day 
has closed. I shall die free ! 



Stirling Castle, Scotland, 
June 16, 1848. 

I am lying in a great chamber of the 
castle. The house is still. The guests have 
creaked to their rooms. The last hoarse 
voice is hushed. When I played for them 
below, my fingers twitched and my 
heart ached with the numbness. I could 
have cried with weariness and pain. The 
faithful Daniel lifted me like a child. 
He has undressed me and laid me here 
among the swelling pillows. The light 
burns fitfully. It dances among the 
shadows. Outside the bleak Scotch mist 

[146] 



Frederic Chopin — A Record 

draws near. It peers into my window. 
It is Jane's soul — soft and floating 
wool — and clammy. My heart is ice — 
ingratitude and ice. She sits beside me 
all the day. We talk of music ! Strange, 
disjointed talk — with gaps of common 
sense — hero-worship — and always the 
flame that burns for me — slow and still. 
She has one thought, one wish — to guard 
my days with sweet content. And in my 
soul the quenchless fire burns. It eats its 
way to the last citadel. I have not long 
to wait. I shall not cry out with the pain. 
Its touch is sweet — like death. "I'll beat 
you yet," brave Heine writes. His soul 
is emptied. But the lips laugh. Jane's 
slow Scotch eyes keep guard at death. 
My lightest wish grows law. The trea- 
sures of my salon — shall they be hawked 
about the town? "Chopin's wash-basin 
— going ! — for ten sous — going !" My pic- 

[147] 



Unfinished Portraits 



tures, caskets, tapestries, each rug and 
chair that I have loved, and the great 
piano with its voice and soul of love. 
She will guard them. Faithful lady! 
Cruel one — my soul curses thee, crushes 
thee forever — false dawn that could not 
stand the sun's deep kiss — Aurora. Un- 
rest — unrest — will it never cease ? Shall 
I lie quiet ? There will be Polish earth 
upon me. The silver goblet holds it. It 
is here beside me now. I reach and touch 
it with my hand. Dear land of music and 
the soul ! The silver cupful from thy 
teeming fields is always near. It shall 
spill upon my breast — upon this racked 
and breathless burden ! But the heart 
within that beats and burns — it shall be 
severed, chord by chord — it shall return 
to the land that gave it. Dear Poland ! I 
see thee in the mists — with my mother's 
brow and mouth and chin. Poland that 
[148] 



Frederic Chopin — A Record 

sings and weeps — sad land. My heart is 
thine ! Cleanse it in sweet-smelling earth ! 
In thy bosom it shall rest — at last — 
rest! 



[149] 



3 QT =® > 



THE MAN WITH THE 
GLOVE 

•« « — — ——=« **■ 



go r* = » 



The Man With the Glove 



H 



0, Tiziano ! Ala-ala-Ao / Tizi-ah- 



no i 



The group in the gondola raised a 
merry call. The gondola rocked at the 
foot of a narrow flight of steps leading 
to a tall, sombre dwelling. The moon- 
light that flooded the gondola and steps 
revealed no sign of life in the dark front. 

The young man sitting with his back 
to the gondolier raised the call again: 
"What, ho ! — Tiziano !" The clear, tenor 
voice carried far, and occupants of pass- 
ing gondolas turned to look and smile at 
the dark, handsome youth as they drifted 
past. 

The door at the top of the steps opened 

[ 153 1 



Unfinished Portraits 



and Titian ran lightly down. He carried 
in his hand a small lute with trailing 
purple ribbons, and the cap that rested 
on his thick curls was of purple velvet. 
He lifted it with gentle grace as he 
stepped into the gondola and took the 
vacant seat beside a young woman fac- 
ing the bow of the boat. 

Her smiling face was turned to him 
mockingly. "Late again, Signor Cevelli, 
and yet again !" She plucked at the strings 
of a small instrument lying on her lap, 
and the notes tinkled the music of her 
words. 

"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons 
to you and to your gracious lord I" He 
bowed to the man opposite him. 

"Giorgio ? Oh — Giorgio doesn't mind." 
Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big and 
lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose 
light and sweet. The three men joined in. 

[154] 



The Man With the Glove 



The boat shot into midstream. It 
threaded its way among the brilliant 
craft that floated in the moonlight, or 
shot by them under vigorous strokes. 
Many glances were turned toward the 
boat as it passed. The face of Titian was 
well known and that of the woman be- 
side him was the face of many pictures; 
while the big man opposite — her hus- 
band — the famous Giorgione, was the 
favorite of art-loving Venice. It was a 
group to attract attention at any time. 
But it was the fourth member of the 
group that drew the eyes and held them 
to-night. 

He was a stranger to Venice, newly 
come from Rome — known in Venice 
years ago, it was whispered — a mere strip- 
ling. Now the face and figure had the 
beauty and the strength of manhood. . . . 
A famous courtesan touched her red-gold 

[ iSS 1 



Unfinished Portraits 



locks and laughed sweetly as she drifted 
by. But the sombre, dark face with the 
inscrutable eyes and the look of power 
did not turn. He sat, for the most part, 
a little turned away, looking at the waves 
dancing with leaden lights under the 
moon and running in ripples from the 
boat. Now and then his lips curved in 
a smile at some jest of his companions, or 
his eyes rested on the face of the woman 
opposite — and rilled with gentle, wonder- 
ing light. 

Titian, watching him from beside the 
young woman, marvelled at the look of 
mystery and the strength. He leaned 
forward, about to speak — but Giorgione 
stayed him with a gesture. 

"The Fondaco," he said, raising his 
hand to the gondolier. " Ho, there ! Halt 
for the Fondaco ! " 

The boat came slowly to rest at the 
foot of the great building that rose white 

[ 156 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



and gray and new in the half light. 
Giorgione's eye ran lovingly along the 
front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin 
the last frescos. You, Titian, on the big 
facade to the south, and Zarato and 
I — " He laid his hand affectionately on 
the arm of the young man at his side, 
"Zarato and I on the inner court." 

The youth started and looked up. His 
eyes studied the massive walls, with the 
low, arching porticos and long unbroken 
lines. "A noble piece of work," he said. 

Giorgione nodded. "German and Vene- 
tian mixed." He laughed softly. "With 
three Venetians at the frescos — we shall 
see, ah — we shall see !" He laughed again 
good-humoredly. 

The boat shot under the Rialto and 
came out again in the clear moonlight. 

"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking 
back, "to-morrow we begin." 

"To-morrow Zarato comes to me — for 

[157] 



Unfinished Portraits 



his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, al- 
most harshly. His eyes were on the 
young man's face. 

The gondola stirred slightly. Every 
one looked at the young man. He sat 
staring at Titian, a lo'Sk half amused and 
half perplexed in his dark eyes. The look 
broke and ran. "Is it so I" he said almost 
gayly. 

Titian nodded grimly. "You come to 
me." 

Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't 
spare him," he pleaded. "I can't spare 
you. The work is late, and the Council 
hammer at a man ! You must wait." 

"Just one day," said Titian briefly. 
"I block in the outlines. It can wait then 
— a year, six months — I care not." 

Giorgione' s face regained its look of 
good-humor. " But you are foolish, Titian, 
foolish ! Paint doges, if you will, paint 

[158] 



The Man With the Glove 



popes and dukes — paint gold. But never 
paint an artist — an artist and a gentle- 
man!" 

They laughed merrily and the boat 
glided on — out into the lagoon and the 
broad, flooding moonlight. 

"Sing something/' said Giorgione. He 
raised the flute to his lips, breathing into 
it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cith- 
ara, from the opposite side, took it up. 
Presently the tenor voice joined in, carry- 
ing the air with sweet, high notes. They 
fell softly on the ear. 

The slender fingers plucking at the 
cithara faltered. The bosom beneath its 
white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, 
trembled with swift breathing, and the 
red lips parted in a quick sigh. 

Titian looked up, smiling reproach- 
fully: "Violante ! ah, Violante !" he mur- 
mured softly. 

[159] 



Unfinished Portraits 



She shook her head smilingly. A tear 
rested on her cheek. "I cannot help it," 
she said; "it is the music." 

"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. 
His tone was dry — half cynical. 

Her husband looked over with faith- 
ful eyes and smiled at her. 

Only Zarato had not looked up. His 
eyes followed the dancing leaden water. 
A flush had come into his sallow cheek. 
But the moonlight did not reveal it. 

Violante glanced at him timidly. 

"Come, we will try again," she said. 
She swept her cithara, and the tenor 
voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she 
said. The time quickened. Her cheeks 
were flushed and her eyes shone. 

"Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir 
soit" rang out the voice. 

"Qua boir soit — qua boir soit" repeated 
Violante softly. 

[ 160 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, 
with passionate undertones. Slowly it 
died away, calling to itself across the 
lighted water. 

The two men applauded eagerly. 
" Bella !" murmured Giorgione. "Once 
more ! — Bella !" He clapped his hands. 

Again the music rose. Once the eyes of 
the singers met — -a long, slow look. The 
time quickened a little, and the music 
deepened. 

Titian sat watching them, his head in 
its velvet cap, thrown back against the 
cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His 
eye strayed over the voluptuous figure at 
his side — the snowy tunic and the ruby- 
red bodice and skirt. He knew the figure 
well, the red-gold hair and wondrous eyes. 
But a new look had come into them — 
isomething tender, almost sweet. 

He leaned forward as the music ceased. 
1 161 1 



Unfinished Portraits 



"You shall pose for me," he said under 
his breath. "I want you for the Duke's 
picture/' 

She nodded slightly, her bosom rising 
and falling. 

Giorgione leaned forward, smiling. 

"What is that?" he asked. His eyes 
rested tenderly on the flushed face and 
the full lips of his wife. "What is it you 
say?" 

"I want her for Bacchante," said 
Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He had 
not removed his eyes from her face. 

Giorgione smiled. Then his face dark- 
ened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" 
he murmured tragically. "But you will 
help, Zarato. You will not go paint for 
dukes and popes?" The tone was half 
laughing and half querulous. 

The young man roused himself and 
looked at him quest ioningly. He drewJiis 

[162] 



The Man With the Glove 



hand across his eyes. "What is it ?" he 
said dreamily. "What is it ?" His face 
flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help 
you — if — I can." 



[163] 



ii 



A 



LITTLE more to the right, please." 

Titian's eyes studied the figure before 
him thoughtfully. His voice murmured 
half-articulate words, and his glance ran 
swiftly from the sitter to his canvas. 

"That is good." He gave a sigh of 
satisfaction. "Can you hold that — ten 
minutes, say!" He had taken up his 
brush and was painting with swift 
strokes. 

The young man before him smiled a 
little. The dark, handsome face lighted 
under it and glowed. "I will do my best." 
The quiet irony in the tone laughed 
gently. 

Titian smiled back. "I forget that you 
are of the craft. You have too much of 
the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us." 

"I am indebted to you!" said the 

[i6 4 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



young man politely. He lifted his hand 
with a courtly gesture, half mocking and 
half sincere. It dropped easily to the 
console beside him. 

With rapid touches Titian sketched 
it as it lay. His face glowed with satis- 
faction, and he worked with eager haste. 
"Good! — Good!" he murmured under 
his breath. "It will be great. You will 
see. . . . You will see." He hummed softly 
to himself, his glance flashing up and 
down the tall figure before him, inserting 
a touch here and a line there, with swift 
decision. 

The warm air of the studio was very 
quiet. Voices drifted up from the Grand 
Canal, and now and then the sound of 
bells. 

The young man's eyes looked dreamily 
before him. He had forgotten the studio 
and its occupant. He might have been 
[i6 S ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



listening to pleasant words — to the sound 
of a voice. 

"There !" Titian dropped the brush 
and stepped back. "We have done for to- 
day." He surveyed the canvas critically. 

The young man stepped to his side. 
He looked earnestly at the daubs and 
lines of paint that streaked it. A smile 
crept over his dark face. "You paint like 
no other, ,, he said quietly. 

Titian nodded. "Like no other," he 
repeated the words with satisfaction. 
"They will not call it like Palma, this 
time — nor like Giorgione, nor Signor 
Somebody Else." He spoke with mild 
irritation. His eyes travelled over the 
lines of glowing canvas that covered the 
walls. 

The young man's glance followed 
them. "No," he assented, "you have 
outstepped them all. . . . You used them 
[166] 



The Man With the Glove 



but to climb on." He moved toward a 
canvas across the room. 

"But this — " he laid his hand lightly 
on the frame — " this was after Palma ? " 
He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry. 

Titian nodded curtly. 

"It was the model — partly," he said 
half grudgingly. 

"I know — Violante." Zarato spoke the 
name softly. He hesitated a moment. 
"Would she pose for any one — for me, 
do you think?" 

Titian laughed harshly. "Better not, 
my boy — Better not ! When she gets into 
a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato — be- 
witched forever ! Look there — and there 
— and there !" His rapid hand flashed at 
the canvases. 

The young man's eyes followed the 
gesture. "The result is not so bad," he 
said gravely. 

[ i6 7 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



Titian laughed back. "Not so bad! . . ." 
He studied them a minute. "You've no 
idea how I had to fight to keep her out — 
And, oh, that hair !" He groaned thought- 
fully, looking at the canvases — " Palma's 
worse!" he chuckled. 

The young man started. A thought 
crossed his face and he looked up. "And 
Giorgione ?" he asked doubtingly. 

Titian shook his head grimly. "He 
married her." 

The young man moved a little away. 
He picked up a small book and mechan- 
ically turned the leaves. 

The older man eyed him keenly. 

"Don't mind me, Zarato." He said it 
kindly, and laid a hand on the young 
man's shoulder. "I have no right to say 
anything against her — except that she's a 
somewhat fickle woman," he added dryly. 

The young man's eyes were fixed on 
[ 168 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



the page before him. He held it out, 
pointing to a name scrawled on the 
margin. 

Titian took it in his hands, holding it 
gently, and turning it so that the light 
fell on the rich binding. "A treasure!" 
he said enthusiastically. 

The young man nodded. "An Aldine 
— I saw that. What does the marking 
mean ? " He asked the question almost 
rudely. 

His companion turned the leaves. 
"It's a bacchanal for the Duke," he 
said slowly. . . . "Tve been looking up 
Violante's pose. — Here it is," He read 
the lines in a musical voice. 

A heavy frown had come between the 
handsome eyes watching him. "You'll 
not paint her like that ?" 

"I rather think I shall," responded 
Titian slowly. "She has promised." 

[i6 9 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"And Giorgione?" 

"Giorgione lets her do as she likes. 
He trusts her — as I do." He laid his hand 
again on the shoulder near him. "I tell 
you, man, you're wrong. Believe in her 
and — leave her," he said significantly. 

The shoulder shrugged itself slightly 
away. The young man picked up his hat 
from the table near by. He raised it 
courteously before he dropped it with a 
little laugh on the dark curls. 
. "I go to an appointment," he said. 



[170] 



III 



A 



FACE looked over the balcony rail- 
ing as the gondola halted at the foot of 
the steps. It smiled with a look of satis- 
faction, and the owner, reaching for a 
rose at her belt, dropped it with a quick 
touch over the balcony edge. 

It fell at the feet of the young man 
stepping from the gondola, and caused 
him to bend with a deep flush. It touched 
his lips lightly as he raised himself and 
lifted his velvet cap to the face above. 

She smiled mockingly. "You are late," 
she said — "two minutes late!" 

"I come!" he replied, springing up 
the steps. In another minute he was be- 
side her, smiling and flushed, looking 
down at her with deep, intent gaze. 

She made a place for him on the divan. 
"Sit down," she said. 

[171] 



Unfinished Portraits 



He seated himself humbly, his eyes 
studying hers. 

She smiled lazily and unfurled her 
fan, covering her face except the eyes. 
They regarded him over the fringe of 
feathers. 

"Where have you been?" she de- 
manded. 

"With Titian." 

"Giorgione wanted you. He did scold 
so — !" She laughed musically. 

Zarato nodded. "I go to him to- 
morrow." 

"Has Titian finished?" 

"For the present — He will lay it 
away." 

"I know," she laughed, " — to mellow! 
. . . How did you like it ? " 

He hesitated a second. "It was a 
little rough," he confessed. 

"Always!" The laugh rippled sweetly. 
[172] 



The Man With the Glove 



"Like a log of wood — or a heap of stones 
— or a large loaf of bread." 

He stirred uneasily. "Do you sit to 
him often ?" he asked. 

Her eyes dwelt for a moment on his 
face. "Not now," she replied. 

He returned the look searchingly. "You 
are going to ?" 

"Yes," she assented. 

He still held her eyes. "I don't like 
it," he said slowly. 

The ghost of a smile came into her 
face. Her eyes danced in ^the shadow of 
it. "No?" she said quietly. 

"No!" 

She waited, looking down and pluck- 
ing at the silken fringe of her bodice. 
"Why?" she asked after a time. 

He made no reply. 

She glanced up at him. He was look- 
ing away from her, across the gay canal. 

[173] 



Unfinished Portraits 



His face had a gentle, preoccupied look, 
and his lip trembled. 

Her glance fell. "Why not?" she re- 
peated softly. 

He looked down at her and his face 
flushed. "I don't know," he said. He 
bent toward her and took the fan from 
her fingers. 

She yielded it with half reluctance, her 
eyes mocking him and her lips alluring. 

He smiled back at her, shaking his 
head slightly and unfurling the fan. 
He had regained his self-possession. He 
moved the fan gently, stirring the red- 
gold hair and fluttering the silken fringe 
on her bodice. It rose and fell swiftly, 
moved in the soft current of air. His eyes 
studied her face. "Will you sit for me 
some day?" he said. 

She nodded without speaking. The 
breath came swiftly between the red lips 

[174] 



The Man With the Glove 



and the eyes were turned away. They 
rested on the facade of a tall building 
opposite, where a flock of doves, billing 
and cooing in the warm air, strutted and 
preened themselves. Their plump and 
iridescent breasts shone in the sun. 

Her hand reached for the cithara at 
her side. "Shall I sing you their song?" 
she said, "The Birds of Venus." 

He smiled indulgently. Her voice 
crooned the words. 

"Sing!" she said imperiously. He 
joined in, following her mood with ready 
ease. 

There was silence between them when 
the song was done. She sat with her eyes 
half closed, looking down at the white 
hands in her lap. 

He lifted one of them gently, his eyes 
on her face. She did not stir or look up. 
He raised it slowly to his lips. 

[ i7S ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The warm breath stirred a smile on 
her face. She glanced at him from under 
falling lids. 

He dropped the hand and stood up 
with a half cry. 

"I must go — Violante — I must — go!" 
He groped to where the doorway opened, 
cool and dark, behind them, "I must 
go," he repeated vaguely. 

She rose and came to him slowly. 
"You must go," she said softly. 

They passed into the dark, open door- 
way. 

Below, in the hot sun, the gondola 
rocked at the foot of the stairs. 



[176] 



-«* ____ 3^ 

IV 

1 HE noon-bell in the southern turret 
of the Fondaco chimed softly. A painter 
at work on the facade near by looked up 
inquiringly at the sun. He smiled absently 
to himself and, dropping his brushes, de- 
scended lightly from the scaffolding to 
the ground. He walked away a few steps 
— as far as the ground permitted — and 
turned to look at the work above. 

"Not so bad," he murmured softly, 
" — not so bad . . . and better from the 
water." He glanced at the canal below. 
A white hand from a passing gondola 
waved to him and motioned approvingly 
toward the colors of the great wall. 

"Bravo, Tiziano!" called some one 
from another craft. The canal took up 
the cry. "Bravo, bravo! Bravo, — Ti- 
ziano!" 

[177] 



Unfinished Portraits 



Titian raised his painter's cap and 
returned the salute. He stood with one 
foot on the parapet, looking down and 
smiling with easy grace, at the pleasure- 
loving crowd below. A man came in 
sight around the corner of the Fondaco, 
walking slowly and looking up at the 
picture as he came. 

"Well?" Titian glanced at him 
keenly. 

"Great!" responded Giorgione heart- 
ily. "The Judith bears the light well, and 
when the scaffolding is down it will be 
better yet. . . . Venice will be proud!" 
He laid his hand affectionately on the 
other's shoulder and motioned toward 
the throng of boats that had halted be- 
low, gazing at the glowing wall. 

"To-day Titian — to-morrow another !" 
said Titian a little bitterly. 

"Why care?" responded Giorgione. 
"Some one to-day told me that my 

[178] 



The Man With the Glove 



Judith, on the south wall here, sur- 
passes all my other work together." He 
laughed cordially. 

Titian looked at him keenly. His face 
had flushed a little under the compli- 
ment. "It is like you not to care," he 
said affectionately. 

"Care! Why should I care — so that 
the work is done?" His eyes rested lov- 
ingly on the facade. "It is marvellous — 
that trick of light," he said wonderingly. 
... "You must teach it to me." 

Titian laughed under his breath. "I 
learned it from you." 

Giorgione shook his head. "Not from 
me ..." he replied doubtingly. "If you 
learned it from me, others would learn 
from me." He stood, looking up, lost in 
thought. 

"Where is Zarato?" asked Titian ab- 
ruptly. 

Giorgione started vaguely. A flush 
[i79] 



Unfinished Portraits 



came into his face. "He stopped work — 
an hour ago," he said. 

Titian's eyes were on his face. 

The open friendliness had vanished. 
It was turned to him with a look of 
trouble. "Had you thought, Cevelli — " 
His speech hesitated and broke off. He 
was looking down at the dark water. 

Titian answered the unspoken ques- 
tion. "Yes, I had thought," he said. His 
voice was very quiet. 

His companion looked up quickly. 
"He is with her now, it may be. . . . 
I told them that I should not go home 
at the noon-bell.' , He looked about him 
slowly — at the clear sky and at the mov- 
ing throng of boats below — 

"I am going home." He spoke the 
words with dull emphasis. 

Titian turned and held out his hand. 
"The gods be with you, friend !" 
[180] 



The Man With the Glove 



Giorgione gripped it for a moment. 
Tears waited behind the eyes and clouded 
the look of trust. "I could bear it if — if 
Zarato was not my friend," he said as 
he turned away. 

"Keep faith while you may," said 
Titian, following him a step./" He who 
distrusts a friend lends thunderbolts to 
the gods,'\.)he quoted softly. 

"Remind him that he is to sit for me 
this afternoon," he called more lightly, 
as the other moved away. 

"I will remember," said Giorgione 
soberly. The next moment he had disap- 
peared in the maze of buildings. 

Titian, looking after him, shook his 
head slowly. He turned and gathered up 
some tools from a bench near by. . . . 
The look in his friend's eyes haunted 
him. 



[181] 



V 

IT still haunted him as he laid out 
brushes and colors in his studio for the 
appointed sitting with Zarato. 

He brought the canvas from the wall 
and placed it on the easel and stood 
back, examining it critically. His face 
lighted and he hummed softly, gazing at 
the rough outline. . . . Slowly, in the 
smudge of the vague face, gleaming eyes 
formed themselves — Giorgione's eyes ! 
They looked out at him, pathetic and 
fierce. 

With an exclamation of disgust he 
threw down the brush. He looked about 
him for his cap, and found it at last — on 
the back of his head. He settled it more 
firmly in place. "There will be time," 
he muttered. "I shall be back in time." 
With a swift glance about him he was 
[182] 



The Man With the Glove 



gone from the room, and on the way to 
Giorgione's studio. 

As he opened the door he saw Gior- 
gione's great figure huddled together 
against the eastern window. Bars of light 
fell across it and danced on the floor. 
Titian crossed the studio quickly and 
touched the bent shoulder. 

The eyes that looked up were those 
that had called him. Giorgione's eyes — 
a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. 
They gazed at him stupidly. "What is 
it ?" asked the man. He spoke thickly 
and half rose, gazing curiously about the 
room. He ran a hand across his forehead 
and looked at Titian vaguely. "What is 
it ?" he repeated. 

Titian fell back a step. "That's what 
I came to find out," he said frankly. 
He was more startled than he cared to 
show. 

[183] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"What has happened, Giorgione?" 
His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a 
child, and he took him by the shoulder 
to lead him to a seat. 

For a moment the man resisted. Then 
he let himself be led, passively, and sank 
back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He 
looked about the studio as if seeking 
something — and afraid of it. "She's 
gone!" he whispered. 

Titian started. "No!" 

Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as 
a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that was 
snared." He hummed a few bars of the 
song and stopped, his gaze fixed on 
vacancy. A great shudder broke through 
him, and he buried his face in his hands. 
There was no movement but the heave 
of his shoulders, and no sound. The light 
upon the floor danced in the stillness. 

Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed. 
[ 184 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



He crossed the room swiftly and touched 
a bell. He gave an order and waited with 
his hand on his friend's shoulder till the 
servant returned. 

"Drink this," he said firmly, bending 
over him. He was holding a long, slender 
glass to his lips. 

The man quaffed it — slowly at first, 
then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!" he 
said as he drained the glass. "I tremble 
here." He laid his hand on his heart. 
"And my hand is strange." He smiled — 
a wan, wintry smile — and looked at his 
friend with searching eyes. 

"Where have they gone?" he de- 
manded. 

Titian shook his head. "How should I 
know?" 

"He said he was going to you." 

"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the 
portrait — He will be there !" 

[ 185 1 



Unfinished Portraits 



Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. 
"No portrait for Zarato!" He said it 
exultantly. 

"What do you mean !" 

"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed 
again. 

"You did not ?" 

Giorgione glanced cunningly about the 
studio. His big face worked and his eyes 
were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips. 

"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret — I — 
she — branded him with this." A piece of 
heavy iron lay on the sill — the wood near 
it blackened and charred. He took it up 
fondly. 

"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn 
end. 

Titian shrank back in horror. "You are 
mad !" he said. 

Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I 
wish I were mad . . . my eyes have 
[ 186 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



seen too much." He rubbed his hand 
across them vaguely. 

"Sleep — " he murmured. "A little 
sleep." The potion was beginning to take 
effect. 

Titian laid him on the couch near by 
and hurried from the studio. 

"Home!" he said to the white-robed 
gondolier who looked back for orders. 
"Home! Row for life!" 

A sense of vague horror haunted him. 
He dared not think what tragedy might 
be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud 
spirit — "Faster!" he called to the la- 
boring gondolier, and the boat shot un- 
der the awning. 

With a sigh of relief he closed the door 
of his studio behind him. . . . On the 
couch across the room, his cap fallen to 
the floor and his arms hanging at his 
sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian 

1 187 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



moved forward, scanning eagerly the 
dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay- 
under the closed lids, and a look of 
scornful suffering touched the lines of 
the mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the 
figure. He gave a start and bent closer, 
his eyes peering forward. . . . The left 
hand trailing on the floor was gloved, 
but above the low wrist a faint line shot 
up — a blotch on the firm flesh. 

With an exclamation of horror he 
dropped to his knees and lifted the hand. 

It rested limply in his grasp. 

Slowly the eyes opened and looked 
out at him. A faint flush overspread the 
young man's face. He withdrew the hand 
and sat up. "I came to tell you the por- 
trait — must wait," he said apologetically, 
"I fell asleep." He picked up his cap 
from the floor and smoothed its ruffled 
surface. "I must go now." He looked 
[188] 



The Man With the Glove 



awkwardly at his friend and got to his 
feet. 

"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where 
is she?" 

He shook his head. "I don't know," 
slowly. 

"You don't know! She has left 
home " 

"But not with me." 

The two men stood staring at each 
other. 

There was a sound of steps in the hall 
and the door swung open. It was a group 
of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their 
midst a wet, sagging form. The red-gold 
hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly 
across the room and laid their burden 
on the low bench. The oldest of them 
straightened his back and looked apolo- 
getically at the wet marks on the shining 
floor. 

[189] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"He said to bring' her here, Signor." 
He motioned clumsily toward the wet 
figure. "He said so." 

"Who said it ?" said Titian harshly. 

" Signor — The Signor — Giorgione. . . . 
We took her there. He would not let us 
in. He stood at the window. He was 
laughing. He said to bring her here," 
ended the old man stolidly. "She is long 
dead." He bent to pick up the heavy 
litter. The group shuffled from the room. 

Slowly the young man crossed to the 
bench. He knelt by the motionless figure 
and, drawing the glove from his hand, 
laid it on the breast that shone in the 
wet folds. 

"I swear, before God — " he said . . . 
"before God!" He swayed heavily and 
fell forward. 

The artist sprang to his side. As he 
touched him, his eye fell on the ungloved 
[ 190] 



The Man With the Glove 



hand. . . . Shuddering, he reached over 
and lifted the glove from the wet breast. 
He drew it over the hand, covering it 
from sight. 



[191] 



•as , to - 

VI 



Y( 



OU must go!" said Titian sternly. 

The young man looked at him dully, 
almost appealingly. He shook his head. 
"I have work to do." 

Titian lifted an impatient hand. "The 
people will not permit it — I tell you!" 
He spoke harshly. "Giorgione is their 
idol. It has been hard to keep them — 
this one week ! Only my promise that 
you go at once holds them." 

The young man smiled, a little cyni- 
cally. "Do you think I fear death — I 
crave it !" His arms fell at his sides. 

His companion looked at him intently. 
"What is your plan?" he asked shortly. 

"Giorgione — " The voice was tense. 
"He shall pay — to the uttermost!" 

"For that?" Titian made a motion 
toward the gloved hand. 
[ 192] 



The Man With the Glove 



The young man raised it with a scorn- 
ful gesture. 

"For that"— he spoke sternly— "I 
would not touch the dog. It is for her!" 
His voice dropped. 

Titian waited a moment. "What would 
you do ?" he asked in a low voice. 

The young man stirred. "I care not. 
He must suffer — as she suffered," he 
added with slow significance. 

"Would that content you? Would you 
go away — and not return?" 

"I would go — yes." 

Titian waited, his eyes on the gloved 
hand. "You can go," he said at last, 
"the Lord has avenged her." 

The young man leaned forward. His 
breath came sharply. "What do you 
mean?" 

"That she is avenged," said Titian 
slowly. "Giorgione cannot live the year. 
Go away. Leave him to die in peace." 

[ 193 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"I did not ask for peace," said the 
young man grimly. 

Titian turned on him fiercely. "His 
heart breaks. He dies drop by drop !" 

The young man smiled. 

Titian watched him closely. "You 
need not fear his not suffering," he said 
significantly. "Go watch through his 
window, or by a crack in the door." — 
He waited a breath. "The man is mad !" 

The young man started sharply. 

"Mad!" repeated Titian. 

Zarato turned on him a look of hor- 
ror and exultation. "Mad!" he repeated 
softly. The gloved hand trembled. 

A look of relief stole into Titian's face. 
"Does that satisfy you?" he asked 
quietly. "Will you go?" 

"Yes, I will go." The young man rose. 
He moved toward the door. "Mad!" he 
whispered softly. 

[194] 



The Man With the Glove 



"Wait," said Titian. He sprang before 
him. "Not by daylight — you would be 
murdered in the open street ! You must 
wait till night. ... I shall row you, my- 
self, out from the city. It is arranged. A 
boat waits for you." 

The young man looked at him grate- 
fully. "You take this risk for me?" he 
said humbly. 

" For you and Giorgione and for — her." 

They sat silent. 

"He will never paint again," said the 
young man, looking up quickly with the 
thought. 

Titian shook his head. "Never again," 
he said slowly. 

The young man looked at him. "There 
are a dozen pictures begun," he said, "a 
dozen and more." 

"Yes." 

"Who will finish them?" 

[195] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Who can tell ?" The painter's face 
had clouded. 

"Shall you?" 

Titian returned the suspicious gaze 
frankly. "It is not likely," he said. "He 
will not speak to me or see me. He says 
I am false to him — I harbor you." 

The young man's gaze fell. "I will go," 
he said humbly. He shivered a little. 

"And not return till I send for you." 

"I will not return — till you send for 
me!" 



[196] 



VII 



V] 



ENICE laughed in the sunshine. 
Gay-colored boats flitted here and there 
on the Grand Canal, and overhead the 
birds of Venus sailed in the warm air. 

A richly equipped gondola, coming 
down the canal, made its way among 
the moving boats. Its occupant, a dark, 
handsome man, sitting alone among the 
crimson cushions, looked out on the 
hurrying scene with watchful eyes. Other 
eyes from passing gondolas returned the 
glance with curious, smiling gaze and 
drifted past. No one challenged him and 
none remembered. Two years is overlong 
for laughing Venice to hold a grudge or 
to remember a man — when the waters 
close over him. . . . Slowly the boat 
drifted on, and the dark eyes of the 
man feasted on the flow and change of 
[i97] 



Unfinished Portraits 



color. . . . "Bride of the Sea," he mur- 
mured as the boat swept on. "Bride of 
the Sea — There is none like thee in beauty 
or power !" His eyes, rapt with the vision, 
grew misty. He raised an impatient hand 
to them, and let it fall again to his knee. 
It rested there, strong and supple. The 
seal of a massive ring broke its whiteness. 
The other hand, incased in a rich glove, 
rested on the edge of the gondola. The 
man's eyes sought it for a moment and 
turned away to the gay scene. 

With a skilful turn the boat had come 
to rest at the foot of a flight of stairs 
leading to a richly carved doorway. The 
young man leaped out and ran up the 
steps. The great silent door swung open 
to his touch, and he disappeared within. 

Titian, standing by his easel, looked 
up quickly. "You are come !" He sprang 
forward, holding out his hands. 
[198] 



The Man With the Glove 



The young man took them, looking 
into the welcoming eyes. "I am come," 
he said slowly. 

"Why did you send for me ?" he asked 
after a pause. His eyes sought the glow- 
ing walls of color, with curious, eager 
glance. 

"Nothing there!" The painter shook 
his head with a wistful smile. "I have 
not done a stroke since that last night — 
the night I rowed you out to the lagoon." 

"Why not?" They were seated by a 
window; the tide of life drifted below. 

Titian shook his head again. "I was 
broken at first — too strained and weak. 
My fingers would not follow my 
thoughts." He glanced down at them 
ruefully. "And then — " His voice 
changed. "Then they came for me to 
finish his pictures. . . . There has been 
no time." 



[199] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Did he want you to do it?" asked 
the other in a low voice. 

Titian's gaze returned the question. 
"I shall never know — He would not see 
me — to the last. He never spoke. . . . 
When he was gone they came for me. I 
did the work and asked no questions — for 
friendship's sake." He sighed gently and 
his glance fell on the moving, changing 
crowd below. 

"His name is water," he said slowly. 
"Ask for the fame of Giorgione — They 
will name you — Titian!" He laughed 
bitterly. 

The young man's smile had little 
mirth in it. "We are all like that. . . ." 
He turned to him sharply: "Why did 
you want me?" 

The painter roused himself. "To sit 
for me" — with a swift look. "I am 
hunted ! I cannot wipe away your face — 
[ 200 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



as it looked that night. I paint nothing. 
. . . Perhaps when you are done in oil I 
shall rest easy." He laughed shortly and 
rose to his feet. 

The young man rose also with a cour- 
teous gesture of the supple hand. " I am 
at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and 
always." 

Titian's eyes swept the graceful fig- 
ure.."! must begin at once." He turned 
away to an easel. _, 

"There was a picture begun, was there 
not ?" asked the young man. He had not 
moved from his place. 

Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he 
said. "Yes." 

"Why not finish that?" 

The painter waited an awkward mo- 
ment. He crossed the room and fumbled 
among the canvases. Then he brought 
it and placed it on the easel, looking at 
[201 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



it. . . . Slowly the look changed to one 
of pride, and his hand reached out for a 
brush. 

The young man moved to his side. 
They looked at it in silence. 

"You will not do better. ,, The young 
man spoke with decision. "Best finish it 
as it stands — I am ready." He moved to 
his place by the console, dropping his 
hand upon it and standing at ease. 

Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We 
shall change the length and perhaps the 
pose," he said thoughtfully. 

"Why?" The question came sharply. 

The painter colored under it. "I had 
planned — to make much of the — hands." 
He hesitated between the words. "The 
change will be simple," he added hastily. 

"Would you mind painting me as I 
am ?" There was a note of insistence be- 
hind the words. 

[ 202 ] 



The Man With the Glove 



Titian's eyes leaped at the question. 
They scanned the figure before him with 
quick, gleaming lights. 

The young man read their depths. 
"Go on," he said coolly. "When my 
feelings are hurt I will tell you." 

The painter took up his brushes, 
working with swift haste. Fingers and 
brush and thumb flew across the can- 
vas. Splotches of color were daubed on 
and rubbed carelessly in and removed 
with infinite pains. Over the picture crept 
a glow of living color and of light. 

At last the brush dropped. "I can do 
no more — to-day," he said slowly. His 
eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly. 

The young man came across and joined 
him, looking down at the glowing can- 
vas. His lips curved in a sweet smile. 

"You thought I was ashamed of it?" 
The gloved hand lifted itself slightly. 
[203 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



" I would not part with* it — not for all 
the gold of Venice !" 

The painter's eyes were on it, doubt- 
ingly. "But you wear it gloved," he 
stammered. 

"It is not for the world to see," mur- 
mured the young man quietly. "It is our 
secret — hers and mine. It was her last 
touch on my hand." 

Titian's eyes stared at him. 

"You did not know?" The lips smiled 
at him. "It was her hand that did it." 
He touched the glove lightly. " Giorgione 
stood over her — and guided it. ..." His 
voice ceased with a catch. 

Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor 
Violante!" he murmured. "Poor child 1" 

The other nodded slightly. "It has 
pledged us forever — forever." He re- 
peated the words in low, musical exulta- 
tion. The locket suspended from its slen- 
[204] 



The Man With the Glove 



der chain amid the folds of his cloak, 
swung forward as he moved. A hand 
stayed it — the gloved hand. 

There was silence between them. 
Voices from the canal floated up, laughter- 
laden. The June sunshine flooded in. 

Titian roused himself with a sigh. " It 
shall be called 'The Portrait of a Gentle- 
man/ " he said. He laid his hand with 
swift affection on the arm beside him. 

The young man smiled back. His hand 
closed firmly over the one on his arm. 
"Call it 'The Man With the Glove/" he 
said quietly! "It is the open secret that 
remains unguessed." ) 



[205 ] 



^$> 



THE LOST MONOGRAM 



^: ,f = s> 



The Lost Monogram 
•8 * S ffr 



1 HE woman seated in the light of the 
low, arched window was absorbed in the 
piece of linen stretched on a frame be- 
fore her. As her fingers hovered over the 
brilliant surface, her eyes glowed with 
a look of satisfaction and lighted the 
face, making it almost handsome. It was 
a round, smooth face, untouched by 
wrinkles, with light-blue eyes — very near 
the surface — and thin, curved lips. 

She leaned back in her chair to sur- 
vey her work, and her lips took on a 
deeper curve. Then they parted slightly. 
Her face, with a look of listening, turned 
toward the door. 

The young man who entered nodded 
[209] 



Unfinished Portraits 



carelessly as he threw back the blue- 
gray cloak that hung about his shoul- 
ders and advanced into the room. 

She regarded the action coldly. "I 
have been waiting, Albrecht." She spoke 
the words slowly. "Where have you 
been?" 

"I see." He untied the silken strings 
of the cloak and tossed it from him. "I 
met Pirkheimer — we got to talking." 

The thin lips closed significantly. She 
made no comment. 

The young man crossed the room and 
knelt before a stack of canvases by the 
wall, turning them one by one to the 
light. His full lips puckered in a half 
whistle, and his eyes had a dreamy 
look. 

The woman had returned to her work, 
drawing in the threads with swift touch. 

As the man rose to his feet her eyes 
[210] 



The Lost Monogram 



flashed a look at the canvas in his hand. 
They fell again on her work, and her face 
ignored him. 

He placed the canvas on an easel and 
stood back to survey it. His lips whistled 
softly. He rummaged again for brushes 
and palette, and mixed one or two colors 
on the edge of the palette. A look of 
deep happiness filled his absorbed face. 

She lifted a pair of scissors and snipped 
a thread with decisive click. "Are you 
going on with the portrait?" she asked. 
The tone was clear and even, and held 
no trace of resentment. 

He looked up absently. "Not to-day," 
he said. "Not to-day." His gaze re- 
turned to the easel. 

The thin lips drew to a line. They did 
not speak. She took off her thimble and 
laid it in its velvet sheath. She gathered 
up the scattered skeins of linen and silk, 

[211] 



Unfinished Portraits 



straightening each with a little pull, and 
laid them in the case. She stabbed a 
needle into the tiny cushion and dropped 
the scissors into their pocket. Then she 
rose deliberately, her chair scraping the 
polished boards as she pushed it back 
from the frame. 

He looked up, a half frown between the 
unseeing eyes. 

She lifted the embroidery-frame from 
its rest and turned toward the door. "I 
have other work to do if I am not to 
pose for you," she said quietly. 

He made no reply. 

Half-way to the door she paused, look- 
ing back. "Herr Miindler was here while 
you were out. We owe him twenty-five 
guldens. It was due the fifth." She spoke 
the words crisply. Her face gave no sign 
of emotion. 

He nodded indifferently. "I know. I 
[212] 



The Lost Monogram 



shall see him." The soft whistle was re- 
sumed. 

"There is a note from the Rath, re- 
fusing you the pension again." She drew 
a paper from the work-box in her hand 
and held it toward him. 

He turned half about in his chair. 
"Don't worry, Agnes," he said. The tone 
was pleading. He did not look at the 
paper or offer to take it. His eyes re- 
turned to the easel. A gentle light filled 
them. 

She dropped the paper into the box, a 
smile on her lips, and moved toward the 
easel. She stood for a moment, looking 
from the pictured face of the Christ to 
the glowing face above it. Then she 
turned again to the door. "It's very 
convenient to be your own model," she 
said with a laugh. The door clicked be- 
hind her. 

[213] 



Unfinished Portraits 



He sat motionless, the grave, earnest 
eyes looking into the eyes of the picture. 
Now and then he stirred vaguely. But 
he did not lift his hand or touch the 
brushes beside it. Gazing at each other, 
in the fading light of the low window, 
the two faces were curiously alike. There 
was the same delicate modelling of lines, 
the same breadth between the eyes, the 
long, flowing locks, the full, sensitive 
lips, and in the eyes the same look of 
deep melancholy — touched with a subtle, 
changing, human smile that drew the 
beholder. It disarmed criticism and pro- 
voked it. Except for the halo of mocking 
and piercing thorns, the living face might 
have been the pictured one below it. 
The look of suffering in one was shadowed 
in the other. 

There was a light tap at the door and 
it flew open. 

[214] 



The Lost Monogram 



The painter looked up quickly. The 
tense, earnest gaze broke into a sunny- 
smile. "Pirkheimer !" He sprang to his 
feet. "What now?" 

The other man came leisurely across 
the room, his eyes on the easel. He nodded 
toward it approvingly. 

"Wanted to see it," he said. His eyes 
studied the picture. "I got to thinking 
it over after you left me — I was afraid 
you might touch it up and spoil it — I 
want it just as it is." His eyes sought 
his companion's face. 

The painter shook his head. "I don't 
know — not yet — you must leave it with 
me. It's yours. You shall have it — when 
it's done." 

"It's done now," said the other 
brusquely. "Here — sign." He picked up 
a brush, and, dipping it into a soft color 
on the palette, handed it to the painter. 

[215] 



Unfinished Portraits 



He took it doubtfully between his 
fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly his 
hand moved toward the canvas. It traced 
rapidly, below the flowing locks, a huge, 
uncouth A; then, more slowly, within 
the sprawling legs of the A, a shadowy 
D; and finally, at the top, above them 
both, in tiny figures, a date — 1503. The 
brush dropped from his fingers, and he 
stepped back with a little sigh. 

His companion reached out his hand. 
"That's all right, ,, he said. "I'll take it." 

The artist interposed a hand. "Not 
yet," he said. 

"It's mine," replied the other. "You 
said it." 

"Yes, I said it— not yet." 

The other yielded with a satisfied 
smile. His hand strayed to the purse 
hanging at his side. "What's to pay? 
Tell me." 

[216] 



The Lost Monogram 



The artist shook his head. "I would 
not sell it — not even to you," he said. 
His eyes were on the canvas. 

"But it's mine!" 

"It's yours — for friendship's sake." 

The young man nodded contentedly. 
Then a thought struck across his face. 
"You'll tell Agnes that ?" he said quickly. 

"Ay, I'll tell Agnes — that it's yours. 
But not what you paid for it," added the 
painter thoughtfully. 

"No, no, don't tell her that." The 
young man spoke quickly. His tone was 
half jesting, half earnest. He stood look- 
ing at the two faces, glancing from one 
to the other with a look of baffled re- 
sentment. "A living shame!" he mut- 
tered under his breath. 

The artist looked up quickly. "What ?" 

"Nothing." The young man moved 
vaguely about the room. "I wish to God, 
[217] 



Unfinished Portraits 



Durer, you had a free hand ! " he broke 
out. 

The artist glanced inquiry. He held up 
his hand, moving the supple fingers with 
a little gesture of pride. "Isn't it?" he 
demanded, smiling. 

The young man shook his head. His 
round face retained its look of dissent. 
"Marriage — for a man like you ! Two 
hundred florins — for dowry !" He laughed 
scornfully. 

His companion's face flushed. A swift 
look came into the eyes. 

The other held out a deprecating hand. 
"I didn't mean it," he said. "Don't be 
angry." 

The flush faded. The artist turned to 
the easel, taking up a brush, as if to seek 
in work a vent for his disturbed thought. 

"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer 
quickly. 

[218] 



The Lost Monogram 



"I shall finish it," replied Diirer, with- 
out looking up. 

The other moved restlessly about. 
"Well ... I must go. Good-by, Diirer." 
He came and stood by the easel, holding 
out his hand. 

The artist rose, the warm smile on his 
lips bathing his face. "Good-by, my 
friend." He held out his hand frankly. 

Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're 
friends ?" he said. 

"Always." 

"And you will never want — if I can 
help you." 

"Never!" The tone was hearty and 
proud. 

Pirkheimer turned away with a look 
of contentment. "I shall hold you to 
it," he said. "It is a promise." 

"I shall hold you to it," laughed 
Diirer. 

[219] 



Unfinished Portraits 



When the door had closed, he stood 
looking down at the picture. He moved 
once or twice across the room. Then he 
stopped before a little brazier, looking at 
it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted 
the coals in the basin. He blew them 
with a tiny bellows till they glowed. 
Then he placed a pan above them and 
threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. 
When the mixture was melted, he car- 
ried it across to the easel and dipped a 
large brush into it thoughtfully. He drew 
it across the canvas. The track behind 
it glowed and deepened in the dim light. 
Slowly the picture mellowed under it. 
A look of sweet satisfaction hovered 
about the artist's lips as he worked. The 
liquid in the pan lessened and his brush 
moved more slowly. The mixture had 
deepened in tint and thickened. Wherever 
the brush rested a deep, luminous color 
[ 220 ] 



The Lost Monogram 



sprang to meet it. It moved swiftly across 
the monogram — and paused. The artist 
peered forward uncertainly. The letters 
lay erased in the dim light. With another 
stroke of the brush — and another — they 
were gone forever. 

The smile of satisfaction deepened on 
his lips. It was not conceit, nor humility, 
nor pride. One could not have named 
the sweetness that hovered in it — haunt- 
ingly. 

He laid down the brush with a quick 
breath and sat gazing at the picture. It 
returned the gentle, inevitable look. He 
raised a finger to the portrait, speaking 
softly. "It is Albrecht Diirer — his work," 
he said under his breath. "None but a 
fool can mistake it. It shall speak for 
him forever/ ' 



[221] 



II 



F 



OR a quarter of a century the picture 
had rested, face to the wall, on the floor 
of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer 
had demanded his treasure — sometimes 
with jests, and sometimes with threats. 
But the picture had remained unmoved 
against the wall. 

Journeys to Italy and to the Nether- 
lands had intervened. Pirkheimer's vel- 
vet purse had been dipped into again 
and again. Commissions without num- 
ber had been executed for him — rings 
and stones and tapestries, carvings and 
stag-antlers, and cups and silks and vel- 
vet — till the Pirkheimer mansion glowed 
with color from the South and delicate 
workmanship from the North. Other pic- 
tures from Diirer's brush adorned its 
walls — grotesque monks and gentle Vir- 
[222] 



The Lost Monogram 



gins. But the Face bided its time against 
the wall. 

To-day — for the first time in twenty- 
five years — the Face of the Christ was 
turned to the light. The hand that drew 
it from its place had not the supple 
fingers of the painter. Those fingers, 
stiffened and white, lay upon a quiet 
breast — outside the city wall. 

The funeral cortege had trotted briskly 
back, and Agnes Diirer had come di- 
rectly to the studio, with its low, arched 
window, to take account of her posses- 
sions. It was all hers — the money the 
artist had toiled to leave her, the work 
that had shortened life, and the thousand 
Rhenish guldens in the hands of the 
most worthy Rath; the pictures and 
copperplates, the books he had written 
and the quaint curios he had loved — 
they were all hers, except, perhaps, the 
[223 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



copperplates for Andreas. Her level glance 
swept them as she crossed to the canvas 
against the wall and lifted it to a place 
on the easel. She had often begged him 
to sell the picture. It was large and 
would bring a good price. Her eyes sur- 
veyed it with satisfaction. A look of dis- 
may crossed the smooth face. She leaned 
forward and searched the picture eagerly. 
The dismay deepened to anger. He had 
neglected to sign it ! She knew well the 
value of the tiny monogram that marked 
the canvases about her. A sound clicked 
in her throat. She reached out her white 
hand to a brush on the bench beside her. 
There would be no wrong done. It was 
Albrecht's work — his best work. Her eyes 
studied the modelling of the delicate, 
strong face — the Christ face — Albrecht's 
face — at thirty-three. . . . Had he looked 
like that ? She stared at it vaguely. She 
[224] 



The Lost Monogram 



moved away, looking about her for a bit 
of color. She found it and came again to 
the easel. She reached out her hand for 
the brush. A slip of paper tucked be- 
neath the canvas caught her eye. She 
drew it out slowly, unfolding it with 
curious fingers. "This picture of the 
Christ is the sole property of my dear 
and honored friend, the Herr Willibald 
Pirkheimer. I have given it to him and 
his heirs to have and to hold forever. 
Signed by me, this day, June 8, 1503, in 
my home in Niirnberg, 15 Zisselstrasse, 
Albrecht Durer." 

She crushed the paper in firm fingers. 
A door had opened behind her. The dis- 
creet servant, in mourning garments, 
with downcast, reddened eyes, waited. 
"His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is 
below, my lady." 

For a moment she hesitated. Then 
[225] 



Unfinished Portraits 



her fingers opened on the bit of paper. 
It fluttered to the table and lay full in 
sight. She looked at it with her thin 
smile. "Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend 
to the studio. I shall receive him here," 
she said. 

He entered facing the easel. With an 
exclamation he sprang forward. He laid 
a hand on the canvas. The small eyes 
blinked at her. 

She returned the look coldly. 

"It is mine !" he said. 

She inclined her head, with a stately 
gesture, to the open paper on the table 
beside her. 

He seized it m trembling fingers. He 
shook it toward her. "It is mine. You 
see — it is mine!" 

"It is yours, Herr Pirkheimer." She 
spoke with level coolness. "I had read 
the paper." 

[226] 



The Lost Monogram 



With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned 
again to the canvas. A smothered oath 
broke from his lips. He leaned forward, 
incredulous. His round eyes, bulging and 
blue, searched every corner. They fell 
on the wet brush and bit of color. He 
turned on her fiercely. "Jezebel !" he 
hissed, "you have painted it out. I saw 
him sign it — years ago — twenty-five 
years !" 

She smiled serenely. "It may have 
been some other one," she said sweetly. 
Her glance took in the scattered can- 
vases. 

He shook his head savagely. "I will 
have no other," he shouted; "I should 
know it in a thousand!" 

"Very well." Her voice was as tran- 
quil as her face. "Shall I have it sent to 
the house of the honored Herr Pirk- 
heimer?" 

[227] 



Unfinished Portraits 



He glared at her. "I take it with me," 
he said. "I do not trust it out of sight." 

She bowed in acquiescence. Standing 
in her widow's garments, with downcast 
eyes and gentle resignation, she waited 
his withdrawal. 

He eyed her curiously. The years had 
touched her lightly. There were the same 
plump features, the same surface eyes, 
and light, abundant bands of hair. He 
heaved a round sigh. He thought of the 
worn face outside the city wall. He 
gathered the canvas under his arm, glar- 
ing about the low room. "There was a 
pair of antlers," he muttered. "They 
might go in my collection. You will want 
to sell them." 

The downcast eyes did not leave the 
floor. "They are sold," she said, "to 
Herr Umstatter." A little smile played 
about the thin lips. 

[228] 



The Lost Monogram 



"Sold! Already!" The round eyes 
bulged at her. "My God!" he shouted 
fiercely, "you would sell his very soul, if 
he had left it where you could ! " 

She raised the blue eyes and regarded 
him calmly. "The estate is without con- 
dition," she said. 

He groaned as he backed toward the 
door. The canvas was hugged under his 
arm. At the door he paused, looking 
back over the room. His small eyes 
winked fast, and the loose mouth trem- 
bled. 

"He was a great man, Agnes," he 
said gently. "We must keep it clean — 
the name of Diirer." 

She looked up with a little gesture of 
dismissal. "It is I who bear the name," 
she said coldly. 

When he was gone she glanced about 
the room. She went over to a pile of 
[229] 



Unfinished Portraits 



canvases and turned them rapidly to the 
light. Each one that bore the significant 
monogram she set aside with a look of 
possession. She came at last to the one 
she was searching. It was a small canvas 
— a Sodom and Gomorrah. She studied 
the details slowly. It was not signed. 
She gave a little breath of satisfaction, 
and took up the brush from the bench. 
She remembered well the day Albrecht 
brought it home, and his childish delight 
in it. It was one of Joachim PatemYs. 
Albrecht had given a Christ head of his 
own in exchange for it. The brush in her 
fingers trembled a little. It inserted the 
wide-spreading A beneath Lot's flying 
legs, and overtraced it with a delicate 
D. She paused a moment in thought. 
Then she raised her head and painted 
in, with swift, decisive strokes, high up 
in one corner of the picture, a date. It 
[230] 



The Lost Monogram 



was a safe date — 15 n — the year he 
painted his Holy Trinity. There would 
be no one to question it. 

She sat back, looking her satisfaction. 

Seventy-five guldens to account. It 
atoned a little for the loss of the Christ. 



[231] 



III 

A HE large drawing-room was vacant. 
The blinds had been drawn to shut out 
the glare, and a soft coolness filled the 
room. In the dim light of half-opened 
shutters the massive furniture loomed 
large and dark, and from the wall huge 
paintings looked down mistily. Gilt frames 
gleamed vaguely in the cool gloom. Above 
the fireplace hung a large canvas, and 
out of its depths sombre, waiting eyes 
looked down upon the vacant room. 

The door opened. An old woman had 
entered. She held in her hand a stout 
cane. She walked stiffly across to the 
window and threw back a shutter. The 
window opened into the soft greenness 
of a Munich garden. She stood for a 
minute looking into it. Then she came 
over to the fireplace and looked up to 
[232] 



The Lost Monogram 



the pictured face. Her head nodded 
slowly. 

"It must be," she muttered, "it must 
be. No one else could have done it. But 
four hundred years !" — she sighed softly. 
"Who can tell?" 

Her glance wandered with a dissatis- 
fied air to the other canvases. "I would 
give them all — all of them — twice over 
— to know — " She spoke under her 
breath as she hobbled stiffly to a huge 
chair. 

The door swung softly back and forth 
behind a young girl who had entered. 
She came in lightly, looking down at a 
packet of papers in her hand. 

The old woman started forward. 

"What have ye found?" she de- 
manded. She was leaning on the stout 
cane. She peered out of her cavernous 
eyes. 

[233] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The girl crossed to the window and 
seated herself in the green light. Shad- 
ows of a climbing vine fell on her hair 
and shoulders as she bent over the 
papers in her hand. She opened one of 
them and ran her eye over it before she 
spoke. 

"They were in the north room," she 
said slowly. "In the big escritoire — that 
big, clumsy one — I've looked there be- 
fore, but I never found them. IVe been 
trying all day to make them out." 

"What are they?" demanded the old 
woman. 

"Papers, grandmamma," returned the 
girl absently; "letters and a sort of jour- 
nal." Her eyes were on the closely writ- 
ten page. 

"Read it," said the old woman sharply. 

"I can't read it, grandmamma." She 
shook back the soft curls with a little 

[234] 



The Lost Monogram 



sigh. "It's queer and old, and funny — 
some of the words. And the writing is 
blurred and yellow. Look." She held 
up the open sheet. 

The keen old eyes darted at it. "Work 
on it," she said brusquely. 

"I have, grandmamma." 

"Well— what did ye find?" 

"It's a man— Will— Willi"— she turned 
to the bottom of the last page — "Willi- 
bald! That's it." She laughed softly. 
"Willibald Pirkheimer. Who was he?" 
she asked. 

"One of your ancestors." The old 
mouth waited grimly. 

"One of mamma's?" 

"Your father's." 

"He must have been a nice man," 
said the girl slowly. "But some of it is 
rather — queer." 

The old woman leaned forward with 

[ 235 ] 



Unfinished Portraits 



a quick gesture. She straightened her- 
self. "Nonsense!'* she muttered. "Read 
it," she said aloud. 

"This is written to Albrecht Durer," 
said the girl, studying it, "in Italy." 

The old woman reached out a knotted 
hand. "Give it to me," she said. 

The girl came across and laid it in her 
hand. The knotted fingers smoothed it. 
The old eyes were on the picture above 
the mantel. "Will it tell ?" she muttered. 

"There are others, grandmamma." 
The girl held up the packet in her hand. 

"What have ye made out?" The old 
hand closed upon them. 

"He was Diirer's friend," said the girl. 
"There are letters to him — five or six. 
And he tells about a picture — in the 
journal — a picture Albrecht Durer gave 
to him." She glanced down at the wrin- 
kled, working face. "It was unsigned, 

[ 236 ] 



The Lost Monogram 



grandmamma — and it was the head of 
the Saviour." 

The old woman's throat moved loosely. 
Her hands grasped the stout cane. 

With a half sigh, she rose to her feet 
and tottered across the room. "Fool — 
fool — " she muttered, looking up to the 
mystical, waiting face. "To leave no 
mark — no sign — but that !" She shook 
the yellow papers in her hand. 

A question shot into the old eyes. She 
held out the papers. 

"What was it dated, Marie? — that 
place in the journal — look and see." 

The girl took the papers and moved 
again to the window. She opened one 
and smoothed it thoughtfully, run- 
ning her eye along the page. She shook 
her head slowly. "There is no date, 
grandmamma," she said. "But it must 
be after Durer's death. He speaks of 

[237] 



Unfinished Portraits 



Frau Durer" — a smile shaded her lips — 
"he doesn't like her very well, I think. 
When did Durer die, grandmamma ? " 
She looked up from the paper. 

"April 6, 1528," said the old woman 
promptly. 

The girPs eyes grew round and misty. 
"Four hundred years ago — almost," she 
murmured softly. She looked down, a 
little awed, at the paper in her hand. 

"It is very old," she said. 

The old woman nodded sharply. Her 
eyes were on the papers. "Take good 
care of them," she croaked; "they may 
tell it to us yet." 

She straightened her bent figure and 
glanced toward the door. 

A wooden butler was bowing him- 
self to the floor. "The Herr Professor 
Doctor Polonius Holtzenschuer," he an- 
nounced grandly. 

A dapper young man with trim mus- 
[ 238 ] 



The Lost Monogram 



taches and spotless boots advanced into 
the room. 

The girl by the window swayed a 
breath. The clear color had mounted in 
her cheek. 

The old woman waited, immovable. 
Her hands were clasped above the stout 
cane and her bead-like eyes surveyed 
the advancing figure. 

At two yards' distance it paused. The 
heels came together with a swift click. 
He bowed in military salute. 

The old woman achieved a stiff cour- 
tesy and waited. The dim eyes peered at 
him shrewdly. 

"I have the honor to pay my respects 
to the Baroness von Herkomer," said 
the young man, with deep politeness. 

The baroness assented gruffly. She 
seated herself on a large divan, facing 
the picture, and motioned with her 
knotted hand to the seat beside her, 

[239] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The young man accepted it deferen- 
tially. His eyes were on a bowed head, 
framed in shadows and leaves across the 
room. 

"I trust Fraulein Marie is well?" he 
said promptly. 

"Marie " 

The girl started vaguely. 

"Come and greet the Herr Doctor 
Holtzenschuer." 

She rose lightly from her place and 
came across the room. A soft curl, blown 
by the wind, drifted across her flushes 
as she came. 

The young man sprang to his feet. 
His heels clicked again as he bent low 
before her. 

She descended in a shy courtesy and 
glanced inquiringly at her grandmother. 

The old woman nodded curtly. "Go 
on with your papers," she said. 
[240] 



The Lost Monogram 



The girl turned again to the green win- 
dow. Her head bowed itself above the 
papers. 

The young man's eyes followed them. 
He turned to the old woman beside him. 
"Is it something about — the picture?" 
he asked. 

She nodded sharply. "Private papers 
of Willibald Pirkheimer," she said, "an- 
cestor of the von Herkomers — sixteenth 
century. He was a friend of Diirer's." 
Her lips closed crisply on the words. 

He looked at her, a smile under the 
trim mustaches. "You hope they will 
furnish a clew?" he asked tolerantly. 

She made no reply. Her wrinkled face 
was raised to the picture. 

"You have one Diirer." He motioned 
toward a small canvas. "Is it not 
enough ?" 

Her eyes turned to it and flashed in 
[241] 



Unfinished Portraits 



disdain. "The Sodom and Gomorrah!" 
She spoke scornfully. "Not so much as 
a copy!" 

"It is signed." 

She glanced at it again. There was 
shrewd intolerance in the old eyes. "Do 
you think I cannot tell ? " she said grimly. 
"I know the work of Albrecht Diirer, 
length and breadth, line for line. You 
say he painted that!" She pointed a 
swift finger at the picture across the 
room. " Have ye looked at Lot's legs ? " 
Her laugh cackled softly. 

The young man smiled under his mus- 
taches. 

The baroness had turned again to the 
picture over the fireplace. "But that — " 
she murmured softly. "It is signed in 
every line — in the eyes, in the painting 
of the hair, in the sweep from brow to 
chin. It will yet be found," she said 
under her breath. "It shall be found." 
[242] 



The Lost Monogram 



He looked at her, smiling. Then he 
raised his eyes politely to the picture. A 
slow look formed behind the smile. He 
half started, gazing intently at the deep, 
painted canvas. His glance strayed for 
a second to the green window, and back 
again to the picture. 

The old baroness roused herself with 
a sigh. She turned toward him. "Your 
dissertation has brought you honor, they 
tell me," she said, looking at him criti- 
cally. 

He acknowledged the remark with a 
bow. "It is nothing," he replied indiffer- 
ently. "Only a step toward molecules 
and atoms." 

The baroness smiled grimly. "I don't 
understand chemical jargon." Her tone 
was dry. "I understand you are going 
to be famous." 

The young man bowed again ab- 
sently. He glanced casually at the pic- 

[243] 



Unfinished Portraits 



ture above the fireplace. "What would 
you give to know" — he nodded toward 
it — "that it is a genuine Durer?" 

The shrewd eyes darted at him. 

The clean-cut face was compact and 
expressionless. 

"Give! I would give" — her eye swept 
the apartment with its wealth of canvas 
and gilt and tapestry — "I would give 
all, everything in the room" — she raised 
a knotted hand toward the picture — 
"to know that Albrecht Diirer's mono- 
gram belongs there." The pointing finger 
trembled a little. 

He looked at it reflectively. Then his 
glance travelled about the great room. 
"Everything in this room," he said 
slowly. "That means — " He paused, 
glancing toward the window. 

The young girl had left her seat. The 
papers had dropped to the floor. She was 

[244] 



The Lost Monogram 



leaning from the casement to pick a 
white rose that swayed and nodded, out 
of reach. 

He waited a breath. Her ringers closed 
on it and she sank back in her chair, 
smiling, the rose against her cheek. 

The eyes watching her glowed softly. 
"Everything in this room — " He spoke 
very low. "The one with the rose ?" 

The old face turned to him with a 
look. The heavy jaw dropped and forgot 
to close. The keen eyes scanned his face. 
The jaws came together with a snap. 
She nodded to him shrewdly. 

The young man rose to his feet. The 
cynical smile had left his face. It was in- 
tent and earnest. He looked up for a 
moment to the picture, and then down 
at the wrinkled, eager face. 

"To-morrow, at this time, you shall 
know," he said gravely. 

[245] 



Unfinished Portraits 



The old eyes followed him, half in 
doubt, half in hope. They pierced the 
heavy door as it swung shut behind 
him. 

The stiff, dapper figure had crossed 
the hall. The outer door clanged. 

Against the green window, within, the 
soft curls and gentle, questioning eyes 
of the Fraulein Marie waited. As the 
door clanged, a rose was laid lightly to 
her lips and dropped softly into the 
greenness below. 



[246] 



IV 



A 



L T a quarter to ten the next morning 
a closed carriage drew up before the 
heavy gate. A dapper figure pushed open 
the door and leaped out. It entered the 
big gateway, crossed a green garden and 
was ushered into the presence of the 
Baroness von Herkomer. 

She stood beneath the picture, her 
eyebrows bent, her lips drawn, and her 
hands resting on the stout cane. 

"Will you come with me?" he asked 
deferentially. 

"Whereto?" 

He hesitated. "You will see. I cannot 
tell you — now. But I need you — with 
the picture." He motioned toward it. 

She eyed him grimly for a second. 
Then she touched a bell. 

The wooden butler appeared. "Send 
Wilhelm," she commanded. 

[247] 



Unfinished Portraits 



Half an hour later the Herr Doctor 
Holtzenschuer was handing a bundled 
figure into the closed carriage that stood 
before the gate. A huge, oblong package 
rested against a lamp-post beside him, 
and near it stood the Fraulein Marie, 
rosy and shy. The young man turned to 
her with a swift gesture. 

"Come," he said. 

He placed her beside her grandmother, 
and watched carefully while the heavy 
parcel was lifted to the top of the car- 
riage. With an injunction to the driver 
for its safety, he turned to spring into 
the carriage. 

The voice of the baroness, from muf- 
fled folds, arrested him. 

"You will ride outside with the pic- 
ture/' it said. "I do not trust it to a 
d river. " 

With a bow he slammed the carriage 
[248] 



The Lost Monogram 



door and mounted the box. In another 
minute the Herr Professor Doctor Holtz- 
enschuer was driving rapidly through 
the streets of Munich, on the outside of 
a common hack, a clumsy parcel bal- 
anced awkwardly on his stiff shoulders. 

From the windows below, on either 
side, a face looked out upon the flying 
streets — a fairy with gentle eyes and a 
crone with toothless smile. 

"The Pinakothek!" grumbled the old 
woman. "Does he think any one at the 
Pinakothek knows more of Albrecht 
Durer than Henriette von Herkomer?" 
She sniffed a little and drew her folds 
about her. 

Past the Old Pinakothek rolled the fly- 
ing carriage — on past the New Pina- 
kothek. An old face peered out upon the 
marble walls, wistful and suspicious. A 
mass of buildings loomed in view. 

[249] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"The university," she muttered under 
her breath. "Some upstart Herr Pro- 
fessor — to tell me of Albrecht Diirer ! 
Fool — fool ! " She croaked softly in her 
throat. 

"The Herr Doctor is a learned man, 
grandmamma — and a gentleman!" said 
a soft voice beside her. 

"A gentleman can be a fool!" returned 
the old woman tartly. "What building 
is this?" 

The carriage had stopped before a low, 
square doorway. 

"It is the chemistry laboratory, grand- 
mamma," said the girl timidly. 

The old woman leaned forward, gray 
with rage, pulling at the closed door. 
"Chemistry lab — " Her breath came in 
pants. " He will — destroy — burn — melt 
it!" Four men lifted down the huge 
parcel from the carriage and turned 
[250] 



The Lost Monogram 



toward the stone door. " Stop ! " she 
gestured wildly to them. 

The door flew open. The young scien- 
tist stood before her, bowing and smiling. 
She shook a knotted finger at him. "Stop 
those men!" she cried sternly. 

At a gesture the men waited. She de- 
scended from the carriage, shaking and 
suspicious, her cane tapping the pave- 
ment before her. The Fraulein Marie 
leaped lightly down after her. Her hand 
had rested for a moment on the young 
man's sleeve. A white rose trembled in 
the fingers. His face glowed. 

"Is your Highness ready?" he asked. 
He had moved to the old woman's side. 

She was standing, one hand on the 
wrapped parcel, the other on her stout 
cane, peering suspiciously ahead. 

"Is your Highness ready?" he re- 
peated. 

[251] 



Unfinished Portraits 



"Go on," she said briefly. 

Four men were in the hall when they 
entered — the director of the Old Pina- 
kothek, the artist Adrian Kauffmann, the 
president of the university, and a young 
man with a scared, helpful face, who 
proved to be a laboratory assistant. 

"They are your witnesses,' ' murmured 
the young man in her ear. 

She greeted them stiffly, her eyes on 
the precious parcel. Swiftly the wrap- 
pings were undone, and the picture lifted 
to a huge easel across the room. The 
light fell full upon it. 

The witnesses moved forward in a 
body, silent. The old face watching them 
relaxed. She smiled grimly. 

"Is it a Dtirer?" she demanded. She 
was standing behind them. 

They started, looking at her doubt- 
fully. The artist shrugged his shoulders. 
[252] 



The Lost Monogram 



He stepped back a little. The director 
shook his head with a sigh. "Who can 
tell ?" he said softly. "The marks " 

The baroness's eyes glowed danger- 
ously. "I did not suppose you could 
tell," she said curtly. 

The young scientist interposed. "It 
is a case for science," he said quickly. 
"You shall see — the Roentgen rays will 
tell. The shutters — Berthold." 

The assistant closed them, one by one, 
the heavy wooden shutters. A last block 
of light rested on the shadowy picture. 
A last shutter swung into place. They 
waited — in darkness. Some one breathed 
quickly, with soft, panting breath. 
Slowly a light emerged through the dark. 
The great picture gathered to itself 
shape, and glowed. Light pierced it till 
it shone with strokes of brushes. Deeply 
and slowly in the bluish patina, at the 

[253] 



Unfinished Portraits 



edge of the flowing locks, on the shoulder 
of the Christ, a glimmer of shadow 
traced itself, faintly and unmistakably. 

Confused murmurs ran through the 
darkness — the voice of the director — a 
woman's breath. 

"Ready, Berthold." It was the voice 
of the Herr Doctor. 

There was a little hiss, a blinding flash 
of light, the click of a camera, and 
blackness again. 

A shutter flew open. 

In the square of light an old woman 
groped toward the picture. Her knotted 
hands were lifted to it. 

Close at hand, a camera tucked under 
his arm, the laboratory assistant stood — 
on his round, practical face the happy 
look of successful experiment. 

A little distance away the Herr Pro- 
fessor Doctor moved quickly. The one 
with the rose looked up. 

[254] 



20 w 



The Lost Monogram 



High above them all — on the great 
easel, struck by a ray of light from the 
shutter — the Diirer Face of Sorrow — -out 
of its four hundred years — looked forth 
and waited in the modern world. 



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